


Stiles the Strange Pet

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Beta Peter, Dependency Issues, Deucalion Is Not Blind, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ennis and Stiles Friendship, Good Peter, Human Stiles Stilinski, Humans are pets, Hurt/Comfort, Lonely Peter Hale, Lonely Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Past Kidnapping, Pet Stiles Stilinski, Recovery, Separation Anxiety, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Issues, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles is a pet, Stilinski Family Feels, past owner deucalion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 62,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5984074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter welcomes a strange new house guest.</p><p>*This work was accidentally deleted and had to be re-uploaded. Everything should be back where it was when I accidentally deleted it*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adoption

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this story forever, and its finally finished I am so happy.
> 
> In this fic Deucalion isn't blind, he never had the confrontation with Gerard so he still has his sight and is only somewhat amoral instead of outright evil.
> 
> ((this work was accidentally deleted, when I meant to only delete a chapter T.T the rest of it will be reuploaded soon))

Peter looked through the papers Deucalion handed him carefully. They were forgeries- clever ones -but to a keen eye noticeably doctored. Deucalion hadn't tried to hide the fact that they were illegitimate. He disclosed upon handing them over that the serial number up top was invalid, the weight of the paper and texture of the lettering were off too.

An uninformed purchaser wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but he and Deucalion had done a number of unlawful business transactions together; mostly related to the 'acquisition' of dangerous, illegal, or restricted items. Deucalion was one of his best clients, though usually it was Peter who did the selling. He knew almost at a glance when documents were faked.

Deucalion leaned back in his chair and sipped casually from his mug of tea, a soft, friendly smile on his lips. He had the smile of a cult leader, enigmatic and trustworthy on the surface, power-hungry narcissism below. Peter thought he was full of shit.

"Why do you want to get rid of him?" Peter asked as he thumbed through the pages. The name on the front was smudged, near illegible save for the last name "Stillinsky" written in bold-faced letters at the top. Below was an the outdated picture of a pale-faced boy with doe eyes and dark moles.

"I just don't have the time to care for him anymore," Deuc said with a deceptive sigh. It was a lie, and they both knew it. Humans - especially the younger ones - ranged from five thousand to fifty thousand dollars, and Deuc's human been his prized pet for a number of years. Obtaining one legally took time, paperwork, and -unless you were especially lucky- numerous visits from the Argent Group, to 'ensure a safe environment.' Nobody in their right mind would just give one away.

"Stiles is an excellent pet, he just needs more stability," Deucalion continued, placing the mug back on the table.

"His name is 'Stiles Stillinsky'?" Peter asked with a raised brow. Underneath his smeared name was a date and place of birth, those were likely fake as well. Underneath that was the name of the corporation that supposedly bred him; it had been shut down years ago for a lack of proper permits.

"I like the name 'Stiles,' it's very expressive of his personality. A little on the short and repetitive side, but it suits him." Of course someone with the name 'Deucalion' would be fan of the name 'Stiles.' Peter withheld the eye-roll.

"His 'perfectly normal' personality?" Deucalions face dropped a little at his slip. He brought the mug up to his face in a blatant delaying tactic.

"We all have our quirks, Peter. He might have a tad more than others, but there's no need to fault him for it."

"Is he up to date on his vaccinations at least?" If he wasn't there was a twenty percent chance he'd be dead within the next ten years. 'Wolf Fever' as it was called, had wiped out ninety-eight percent of the human population. Those that survived the initial outbreak lived in small colonies run by the Argent Group with varying dependence on wolves for outside support, or were bred by private, werewolf-owned corporations like Stiles.

"The previous owners assured me he was. He's only gotten sick a handful of times, he's never-"

"Oh my gaaaawd," came a droning cry from the other side of the room. Both wolves turned their gaze toward the subject of their conversation. An older, slightly more disheveled looking version of the pale-faced boy from the photo was sitting on his sofa, a gray throw blanket wrapped around him. He kicked his legs out in an attempt to free himself from its confines. Unable to do so he fell limp with his head against the armrest, acceptant to spend the rest of his life in a cocoon.

"This blanket is amaaazing. I want one. I want twenty. Deeeeeeeuc!" Deucalions eye twitched. "I love this blanket. Buy me thirty," he whined. Deucalion did not respond to him, he kept his eyes on Peter.

"That isn't normal behavior for him, is it?" Deucalion grimaced. Stiles was quite obviously drugged.

"No. Usually he's very well behaved. He can be a little 'excitable' from time to time, but so long as he takes his medication he's perfectly fine." They resumed their previous topic of conversation, ignoring the drugged human.

"Look, I'll level with you," Deuc said in a quieter voice, unnecessary as they had chosen to meet in Peters home. "Stiles was given to me by a friend, who was given to her by a friend. We don't know where he came from, and even he doesn't know where he came from. Suffice it to say that if the Argents showed up asking for a history, I wouldn't be able to give them one."

"And do those 'friends' of yours have reason to avoid the Argents as well?" Peter asked knowingly. They shared the same social circle, he knew what kind of friends the other man liked to keep.

"They might," said Deuc with a small smile.

Peter sighed and tapped his pen against the table. He gave another glance over at the boy happily face-planted onto the sofa. He looked harmless, and his house was large enough for six people let alone two. If they grew to hate each other it wouldn't be difficult to keep separate.

"You said he didn't have any behavioral issues?" He was starting to warm up to the idea of keeping a pet. He'd been thinking of getting a cat for a while now, but the idea of cleaning up after another creature was off putting. A human, however, could take care of itself and Stiles was an adult. Plus, much as he hated to admit it wolves were social creatures, they needed a pack. He'd lived on his own for years and things could get a bit lonely. He wasn't about to go waltzing up his sisters doorstep for a quick chat either.

"Trouble sleeping now and then, but other than that he's a perfectly healthy teenager." Deuc smiled. "He' very self-sufficient." The words 'self-sufficient' appealed to Peter.

"I'll take him," He finally acquiesced, wondering if he'd made the right decision. At the very least it would drive his niece crazy knowing that he had something she'd been trying to get for years. Peter liked having things that other people wanted.

The process of getting Stiles moved into his new home took less than ten minutes. Stiles preoccupied himself with touching and feeling most anything he could get his hands on, while Deucalion gave Peter a box of his clothes and a dufflebag that looked to contain mostly books and a worn tablet. For someone who'd been on this earth for more then nineteen years he had surprisingly few possessions.

Deuc didn't bother sticking around to say goodbye. "That would just make things messy, don't you think?" Peter didn't really care. Once all the papers had been accounted for, and Deucalion departed, Peter turned his attention towards his new pet.

The human was quieter now, contentedly nestled into a mess of blanket and pillows he'd created. He starred at the wall blankly, lips in a slight part. Peter reached out to brush a few stray hairs from his face. He was a pretty human, at the very least. His pale skin contrasted nicely with his hazel eyes and dark brown hair. Even in the haze of sedatives they shone brightly and intelligently. The boy named 'Stiles' blinked and looked up at him.

"You're doped out of your mind, aren't you?" asked Peter, amused. More than a minute passed before Stiles realized he'd been asked a question.

"H-uh?" His speech drawled as he blinked to orient himself. Whatever Deuc had given him was strong. He was curious to find out why exactly Deucalion felt the need to drug him so strongly before delivering him. He did not buy the explanation of 'anxiety' and in Peters business he learned not to ask too many unnecessary questions. Besides, the answer would be revealed in time.

"Of course you are." Peter sighed. "The nice men give you some nice meds, Stiles?" Stiles had already forgotten about him. His face was back in the blanket, scenting it like a puppy would a new toy.

It took Peter a while to disentangle the nest Stiles had built around himself - Stiles whimpered and whined as he pulled the fleece away- but once he had he easily pulled the dazed human up onto his feet. He pushed the blanket back into Stiles hands who promptly forgot all protests once it had been returned to him.

"Let's get you into bed." He guided the intoxicated human towards a guest room he had set up, blanket trailing behind them.

Stiles hit the bed with all the elegance and grace of a dog having a seizure. He curled inward and rubbed his face against the sheets, holding the blanket close like a child with a stuffed animal.

"'Night," the boy mumbled, unaware that it was only late afternoon.

"Goodnight, Stiles." Peter observed him for a few moments. He had a feeling Stiles would make an interesting addition to his home.


	2. Acclimation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles get some bonding time, much to Peters chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings are located in the end notes. This chapter is a little exposition heavy, but I wanted to try writing longer chapters. If its too long let me know and I'll break down future ones.

_“What an interesting talent you’ve discovered,” Deucalion said in a plain voice. Stiles started at the sudden noise, the lamp he'd been levitating dropped and shattered to the ground, sprinkling tiny pieces of glass at his feet. Stiles skipped backwards to protect himself. In his fright his spark faltered, flickering like a candle only to disappear completely._

_"How long has that been going on?" Deucalion motioned towards the remnants of the lamp. His face showed no emotion. Stiles didn't know what to say as he averted his gaze from the prying eyes of his owner, who was now looking at him with more regard and more attention to detail than he ever had before. It was unnerving. Stiles felt like a guilty child with their hand caught in a cookie jar._

_"It's alright," Deucalion said in a quiet, friendly voice."I'm not angry, Stiles." No, he probably wasn't. Deuc hardly ever got angry, especially not at him. His go-to phrase was always 'disappointed.' Stiles hunched his shoulders like a little kid._

_"A while," he muttered. His heart beat like a rabbit trying to jump out of his chest. He hated himself for not checking the door was locked, but Deucalion was supposed to be on a trip for at least two more weeks. He thought he was safe._

_“Do take care not to break anything else,” the wolf told him in a plain voice, and with a curt nod he left. Stiles relaxed a little and bit his lip, wondering how exactly this discovery was going to affect his future. He used what little remained of his energy to put the shattered pieces of lamp into the trash bin._

\-----

 _This is how I die,_ Stile thought solemnly as he clung to the storm gutter like a cat stuck up a tree, only unlike the cat he would not be landing on all fours. _All because of my stupid, traitorous spark, and my stupid, traitorous desire for freedom. It's my sparks fault I wound up here in the first place._

His spark had always been a fickle thing, waxing and waning at random. All too often it would give out completely, shrivel up like a prune, and abandon him like everything else in his life so far. Usually when he needed it most. Like right now, dangling twenty feet off the roof.

He had come to terms with dying a great many unnatural ways; usually from being petted to death or by the 'helpfulness' of an ignorant owner. Strange how few wolves knew that total submersion in an ice bath was no way to combat fever. Their best efforts to heal him usually involved a frozen, congested, miserable Stiles. Those deaths he could accept, they were easy, and painless, and someone else's fault. Yet the idea of splattering himself all over the ground struck him as rather unappealing.

He thought it would be fun to jump from the roof. He had magic to catch him safely before he fell, and he always liked listening to the panicked search his owners went through as they struggled to find him. He'd been in the middle of conjuring a pile of leaves to land on when a stray gust of wind knocked him off his balance and set him sprawling down the slanted tiles. His spark gave out, and he narrowly managed to grasp onto the gutter and save himself from falling to a messy and untimely doom- at least temporarily.

He hadn't intended to stay hidden for long, it never worked out well for him in the past anyways. No, he just wanted momentary freedom, a lack of werewolf supervision. Clearly, whatever forces that were above decided to punish him for his lack of consideration. As he grasped onto the cold metal he struggled to regain the spark that had left him, finding nothing but the hallow pit of his own empty stomach.

He wasn't alone in his predicament either. Below him stood his new owner, torn between taunting and chastising him; he compromised by alternately doing both. _And he seemed so friendly last night, then again, so did the lamp._

"Oh, you know. Just . . . testing the structural integrity of the drain system?" he said calmly when asked why he was up there. "These old houses are death traps, ya know?" He struggled to keep his voice even as his arms burned from the strain of holding himself up.

"Ah, of course. How clever of you." The man below was needlessly mocking. Even in the midst of his fear, Stiles found it within himself to be annoyed by it.

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have a ladder, would you?" He winced as another gust of air bit at his finger tips and loosened his grip. He could feel them slipping, inch by inch. One day his inability to be serious would be the death of him, probably today.

"I do." Peter did not move. He thought his name was Peter, it was the only name he remembered hearing last night. Stiles expected a little more sympathy from his predicament; most owners had a heart attack if he so much as scraped a knee.

"Are you going to get it?" he hissed, gritting his teeth. Something about endangering his life always made him a bit irritable.

"It's in the garage," Stiles heard a tsk. "I'd have to go get it from there and then drag it all the way over here, and," a painfully long moment passed, "I don't think you'll learn anything if I do." Stiles eye twitched. The wolves voice remained casual and condescending.

"You're going to learn what the color of my insides look like if you don't get me down from here!" his voice rose to a shout as the wind buffeted him. He closed his eyes, knowing he was very, very close to falling.

"Oh, I'll get you down," there was an evil note to Peters voice. He heard something impact the wall below. A violent tremor ran up the side of the house, shaking and dislodging his unwilling fingers from their death grip around the gutter. He had no time to flail or even cry out as he began to plummet, a single thought running through his mind; well, fuck.

Instead of the cold, hard impact of death, he was caught in the warm, toned arms of a brusque wolf. Peter had caught him. The breath Stiles held 'whooshed' out of him. Said wolf chuckled. He vaguely remembered the face from the previous night, it was blurry but he could recall a similar condescending expression. Relief flooded his body, unwillingly he relaxed into his hold.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles. My name is Peter Hale." The last name struck a cord but he could not remember why. The man he looked up at was handsome at the very least. Stiles had noted it last night but hadn't been able to fully appreciate it. From where Stiles rested in his arms he got a good whiff of the mans aftershave; something woody and musky, but still with a slight cinnamon to it. The arms wrapped around him were muscular; Stiles could always appreciate an athletic body, even if he didn't quite appreciate the brain and mouth attached to it.

"Uh, nice to meet you, too?" Stiles blinked at him and bit his bottom lip, it was a nervous habit but one he could not break. He wasn't sure what the proper way to thank someone for saving your life was. Although, had he gotten the ladder or just not showed up at all Stiles could have saved himself. Technically it was his fault in the first place for leaving his new pet unattended.

"Now, would you like to tell me what you were really doing up there?" The blue-grey eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. Stiles tilted his head slightly and 'uhm'd' in the way he always did when trying to come up with a lie. Unable to think of one he settled on a distorted truth.

"Uh. . . wanted to get some fresh air?" he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact. It was an even less convincing story, but it wasn't far from the actual truth. Waking from his drugged slumber he had been struck with a wanderlust. The large windows and his new found freedom from Deucalions restrictive atmosphere had simply been too tempting for the magic user.

The outdoors and the freedom they provided called to him. He loved the adventure, mystery, and excitement of wandering somewhere unexplored. In a past life with Deucalion they lived in Rome, Milan, Greece, and France on several occasions, yet rarely had he been allowed outside on his own.

But what if someone tries to steal you? Deuc would say with a smile on his face. I can't let my pet wander around alone in a city where he doesn't even speak the language. He'd been cursed to sit and stare out the glistening windows at walkways, parks, metropolis's, and city skylines without being able to enjoy them.

When he was younger and cuter he had been paraded around like an expensive lap dog, trailing his master wherever he went. But as he matured and his social skills did not, Deucalion began leaving him at home more and more often. It did not help that he habitually spilled some of the 'good' Parisian wine laden with wolfsbane that they all seemed to love. To Stiles all wine was 'good' wine.

"And the door wasn't an option for you because . . . ?" Stiles snapped out of his reverie. Peter was still starring at him intently, though he lacked the eclipsed pupils his face was vaguely reminiscent of a snake about to strike. It was not a comforting thought.

"Doors can have structural issues too?" The look Peter gave him was somewhere between incredulous and bemused. "Could you, uh, put me down now?"

"Ah. Of course." The arms around him disappeared and Stiles was dropped suddenly and unceremoniously onto ground with a dull 'thud.' He let out a yelp and a groan as his back hit the dirt, forcing the air out of his lungs once again. He panted, glaring at his new owner with a look of surprised betrayal.

"Fragile!" He groaned once more, pushing himself up onto his elbows and feeling the back of his head. There was only slight pain and no bumps to be found. "I am fragile!"

"Oh, really?" Peters eyebrows raised up in a look of exaggerated wonder. "Then maybe, if you're so fragile, don't play on the roof." He crouched down to give Stile a condescending pat on the head.

"Come now. I was making breakfast."

Stiles suppressed rolling his eyes as Peter stood and left his side. He held the same superior air about him that Deucalion had. He got up slowly, wincing at the pain in his lower back. He brushed the debris from his pants, a few wet-leaves clinging persistently to the back of his jeans.

"I want coffee," he demanded - not asked, but demanded as he trailed behind Peter. It was the least he could do after dropping him on the ground like that. Now that the threat of death had disappeared the strain of using magic was beginning to effect him; along with the side effects of being drugged up most of the previous day. It wasn't the first time Deuc gave him 'special tea,' but it was the first time he'd wound up in a strangers home, overhearing negotiations for his re-homing.

At least Peter hadn't caught his magic act. He had that much to be thankful for, though it did little to comfort him. He had been left behind once again, and that realization shook him to his very core, even if he didn't show it on the surface.

He fought back the emerging panic that threatened to swallow his heart and his mind. The anxiety he felt wasn't unfamiliar- it happened every time Deuc left on one of his trips, leaving him all alone. Everyone always left him so alone.

No one would be coming back for him. Even the constant of Ennis bringing him food was gone. His lungs started to constrict, he found it harder to breath as he forced his way up the steps of the old wooden house. His vision blurred, he clenched his fists, blunt nails digging into his palms. He heard something but it seemed far away. He tried to shake off the malevolent feelings creeping through his joints. He could hold it together, just this once he could hold things together. He wasn't upset, he didn't feel like a little kid lost in a snowstorm. Except, he did.

A sharp pain brought him out of his daze. His eyes snapped back to reality. In trying to hold it together he'd lost control of himself, reddening his eyes with tears that threatened to burst.

"-You alright? Did you actually hurt yourself or-?" Peter was in front of him looking at him with concern. His hands were tight on Stiles shoulders, applying hawk-like pressure. They stood in a kitchen he didn't remember entering. I blacked out, he realized. Subconsciously he'd crossed his arms over his chest, holding himself tightly together. His fingers were trembling. The source of his previous pain was a singular cut across his left bicep. Peter must have slashed him to snap him out of it. The cut was shallow, he couldn't see a single speck of red.

"I'm fine!" He hated how scratchy and tearful his voice sounded when he spoke. He tried to keep the anxious, paranoid wreck of his mind hidden as long as possible. Peter had seen it twice today, and those were two dark tallies he didn't want to add up.

"I-I'm just in an acclimation period, is all." Peter didn't look convinced. "Perfectly normal response. Best if you don't interfere really. Too much interference now could cause me permanent psychological damage, I mean not that I don't, uhm." He clamped his mouth shut, he was starting to ramble. When he rambled he revealed more than he wanted too.

His anxiety started to rebuild itself under the wolfs watchful gaze. He exerted the small modicum of magic he still possessed to downplay his nervous scent. It was too strong to be completely covered, but he could dilute it some. Peters brows knitted together as Stiles scent shifted. He leaned closer to sniff the top of his head, and, seemingly satisfied, pulled away a second later.

"Well then, by all means," Peter waved dismissively. "Continue on with your acclimation period. Don't let me interrupt." He turned from Stiles and crossed the room to the kitchen to the stove. Stiles dropped his shoulders and sighed, not caring if Peter heard. He looked around to reorient himself.

The kitchen was large and modernized compared to the outside of the home. It looked more for a large family than for a lone wolf and his human pet. At least he would have a better area to cook in than Deucalions small but efficient flat.

His eyes lightened at the sight of a black laptop sitting on the counter, it looked warm from use though it flashed a blue idle screen. That meant there was wifi in these forsaken woods. He would have to coax the wireless password out of his owner later.

Stiles rubbed his eyes dry and hovered in the doorway. He was used to being doted on and obsessed over the first few days of ownership. Often times his new family would buy him new clothes, or pet him compulsively, getting their scents caught in his hair and over his neck. The few touches Peter gave him were brief and not necessarily meant to claim. Peter didn't seem to care for his presence much at all. He wasn't sure whether or not he liked the lack of attention.

"I thought you wanted coffee?" asked Peter, when he turned and saw Stiles still standing there. "You can use a coffee pot, can't you?" he raised a brow, using a tone that was equal parts petulant and teasing. It was just mocking enough to make him forget his anxieties and replace them with frustrated determination.

"Of course I can!" Stiles waved his arms about, trying to appear for all intents and purposes like he actually knew what he was doing. He'd made coffee before on several occasions, but it had been a while. Deucalion liked him to drink only green tea, insisting that caffeine was bad for his growing mind. Peter hummed, and with a knowing smile turned back to preparing the eggs.

"Okay, I give up," he said after several minute of scouring the kitchen. "Do you even have a coffee machine?"

"It's on top of the fridge," Peter said complacently as he pushed the eggs off the pan and onto two separate plates. "Would you like some toast?" The subtle smirk on his face made Stiles eye twitch.

"Yes I would," he snapped, "and why didn't you say anything sooner?" he put his hands on his hips like an angry girlfriend. First Peter dropped him on his back, and then he let him go on a completely futile quest through the cupboards. Despite learning a lot about Peters flour preferences he considered the mission a failure.

"Because you're in an acclimation period. Too much interference could permanently damage you, not that you 'don't already, uhm.'" There was that mocking tone again.

Stiles eyed the expensive laptop, wondering how much personal property destruction he could get away with. "Now shut up and eat your eggs. I'll get it down for you."

The machine stood out in a painfully obvious way now that it had been pointed out to him. It was a good few feet away,and Stiles horrible, dreadful, peace-ruining habit of needless defiance welled up within him again. A Cheshire cat grin spread on his face. He felt within himself for his spark, which was weak but capable. At least if it gave out this time he would get to smash something of Peters on the floor.

When Peter turned around the coffee machine was already in Stiles arms, without the boy having to move. It gave him a brief sense of self-satisfaction to see Peters face contort into an expression other than derision. Losing the rest of his energy had been worth it.

"How did you get that?" Peter asked, looking at the space between Stiles and the fridge.

"Oh, I used these weird appendages growing out of my wrist-" he made a pincing motion with his unoccupied hand- "to grab it. Neat, huh?" He could play the sass game too. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Of course you did, you sarcastic little brat." The words sounded almost affectionate. Stiles grinned brightly and looked down at the machine he held, setting it up on the counter. It wasn't one of the fancier electronic machines some of his owners had used, but a traditional coffee pot. Fortunately he'd at least been able to find the grinds on his own.

He set the machine up to brew and sat down at a stool near the island. A second later Peter put a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.

"Thank you," Stiles said in a pleasant tone, hoping he looked every bit as sarcastic as his owner.

"You're welcome, pet," Peter patted him on the head again, unnecessarily rough in Stiles opinion. Under any other circumstance the word 'pet' might have felt affectionate. He dug his fork into one of the yellow fluffs and popped it into his mouth.

They sat in silence for a while, waiting for the coffee to finish. Stiles continued shoving eggs into his mouth while Peter nibbled on an apple and typed away at his computer, still ignoring Stiles presence. Well maybe not ignoring, maybe just indifferent to.

"Why are you eating an apple?" Stiles couldn't stay silent for long.

"Because it's healthy," he explained slowly and carefully. Stiles wrinkled his nose.

"What is it with werewolves and their obsession with health? It's not like any weres ever died of diabetes. If I were a wolf I would eat candy all day long."

"Is that something Deucalion let you do?" Peter didn't even bother to look at him as he asked. He was still typing away at his laptop. Stiles grimaced at the name of his former owner.

"No," he snorted, stabbing his fork into his eggs. "Deuc never let me do anything fun. He was always trying to get me to 'meditate past my humanity' or something like that." Peter exhaled sharply through his nose in what was probably his best impersonation of a laugh. He flicked his eyes up at the boy.

"Between you and me," Stiles stage whispered, leaning in close "-he's a little bit of a future super villian, don't you think? Like not now obviously, too much 'peace and good and love the earth' but in the future I'm sure he'll be running around with lazer eyes and a master plan. All he needs is a fluffy white cat." Peter snorted a laugh, distracted enough from his work to stop typing and give the first, genuine smile Stiles had seen on his face.

"Hey, you're not one of those evil 'future super villain' type alphas are you?" he asked just as the coffee pot ceased brewing. He rose from his chair, digging through the cupboards to find a mug.

"No, I'm not," Peter said sharply. The clicking of his keyboard returned.

The cabinets contained a plethora of mugs and thermoses. Most were black and expensive looking, several were made of stainless steel, but the one Stiles chose for himself was a regular old mug, eggshell white, and a little dusty. He wiped it out with a paper towel before pouring the coffee into it.

He noticed Peter watching him. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing; continue acclimating." Peter looked back at his computer. "There's creamer in the fridge if you want it." Oh, so he can be helpful, Stiles held his tongue and gave an acknowledging hum. He didn't want the creamer, preferring to take it black. The sharp, bitter scent brought back warm memories of his father whom he remembered vaguely and missed terribly.

"Speaking of alphas," Stiles said as he sat back down at the table, "do you know Ennis?" Peter grimaced distastefully, like he'd eaten something particularly foul.

"I've met the brute once or twice, yes. His territory isn't far from here. I take it Deucalion introduced you?" Stiles nodded, blowing on his drink. 'Brute' was an accurate description.

"Yeah, he used to bring me food sometimes while Deuc was away. Ennis isn't so bad." He took a sip of the coffee. It burnt his tongue, but bitter taste was so familiar he didn't mind the mild pain.

"He just doesn't know his own strength. He tried scruffing me once - nearly broke my neck," Stiles shuddered at the unpleasant memory. "You know why that's a bad idea, don't you?" he eyed Peter suspiciously.

"I'd imagine being grabbed around the throat might cause you some permanent discomfort around the spinal area." It was pleasing to note Peter had basic knowledge of human anatomy. He had, after all, prevented him from being brained on the grass earlier. Then again, knowledge could always be built upon.

He started to explain to his new owner the various pressure points within the human body that could -if unintentionally brutalized - kill a human, and which point were especially fragile.

Peters fingers twitched whenever Stiles found something new to go on about. He was halfway through explaining why humans can't eat raw meat when the wolf finally lost his patience. To his credit he lasted a lot longer than expected.

"Stiles," he cut him off "as much as I enjoy the biology lesson, you're arrival was a little unexpected and I do need to finish my work sometime today." Stiles tried not to enjoy Peters annoyance too much. Really. He tried. "So could you please sit quietly and finish your breakfast?"

"If you want to work so badly than why are you doing it in the kitchen? It's a communal area." He asked, raising his brow.

"It didn't used to be," Peter gave him a meaningful look. "There's a big library upstairs; why don't you go play, or read a book, or something?"

"I don't want to read a book," Stiles griped, though the promise of a library piqued his interest.

"Well, is there anything else I can do to convince you-"

"Wifi password?" he asked, seizing the opportunity. There was very little Stiles wouldn't trade for wireless connection, and 'shutting up' just so happened to be on his list. It would not be the first time he traded silence for something infinitely more valuable.

"Will you be quiet once you have it?"

"It'll be like I'm not even here, promise. I'll be quieter than a mouse. Even quieter than that even, I'll be like a Prius, being driven by a mouse."

Peter rolled his eyes. "One more condition." He pushed his laptop to the side, looking at Stiles in a calculating but not unfriendly way.

The human had been through enough 'orientations' to know that this meant 'serious talk time.' He didn't care for it. He started mentally preparing himself to defy and argue. He hoped Peter asked him to help with the dishes; he liked letting them slip through his fingers and shatter on the ground. It only took seven cups for Deucalion to stop asking for help with the chores. Stiles let a sadistic smile flit across his face.

"I don't care what you do," the smile dropped. "You're an adult and you can take care of yourself; don't leave a mess, and for gods sake stay off the roof," he spread his hands in an exasperated manner.

Stiles blinked. Maybe living with Peter wouldn't be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts having panic attacks and other mental health issues beginning this chapter. In the next couple of chapters the beginning will be flashbacks to Stiles life before Peter, and the rest will be Stiles in the present living with him. Next chapter will be uploaded on either this coming Friday, or Tuesday.


	3. Apnea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has night terrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is darker than most, so I included some friendly flashbacks at the end. Also Deucalion is an evil hippy. See end-notes for chapter specific warnings.

_Stiles struggled and squirmed, tears running down his face as he reached out for his wailing mother. The four year old was no match for the werewolf that held him. He could do nothing but cry and kick his little legs as his parents shouted._

_"Give him back!" his father tried pushing past one of them, reaching his arms out for Stiles. One of the weres growled and blocked his path, pushing him away easily. He hit the floor with a sound that sent cold rushing through the childs veins._

_"No! Stop!" Claudia knelt down by her wounded husband, anger and pain resonating within her. Her eyes met Stiles, whose were equally glazed with tears. Stiles grasped out for her again though there was no chance of reaching. The wolf that held him turned on his heel and marched towards the door, paying no attention to the childs attempted escape, or the subsequent shouts as they left the house._

\----

Stiles woke to his own screams. As his eyes shot open to the blackness of his bedroom they frantically skitted from one side of the room to the other, then up to the ceiling, trying to find his invisible attacker. It was too dark, he couldn't see anything. The dream was fading rapidly from his mind but the feeling, the awful, sickening, chilling feeling remained rooted and grew in his stomach like a poisonous plant. He could not breath.

He tried to sit up but something was keeping him down and that panicked him more. Unable to breath and unable to struggle he gasped pathetically, digging his blunt fingernails into something soft and warm that weighed on him. Too late he realized it was flesh. He felt a small prick of blood trickle out of the wound he'd made. The skin wasn't his own. A person was holding him. The eyes above glowed yellow. A wolf was holding him.

"Get away from me!" he shouted at the wolf he could not see in the dark. Even as his eyes adjusted the tears spilled down his cheeks and obscured his vision. He let out an uncontrolled sob. The figure holding him did not move away. A hand ran through his hair as he shook.

The person he clung to was not his father, it couldn't be, but the thought still tore another sob from his throat. The body too unnaturally warm, the hand in his hair too soft and un-calloused. He wanted his mom and dad. Emotions ran heavy within him, a block of ice in a torrid stream.

"Shhhh," the figure whispered quietly in his ear. It sounded familiar. He couldn't place it, but the familiarity of it made him whimper and relax his hold. He withdrew his fingers from the persons skin. "C'mon now. You're alright." Stiles shook and curled inwards, drawing his knees up to his chest. The wolf was rubbing his back, probably had been rubbing his back for a while. He whimpered and stopped trying to get away, instead he pressed himself further against the others chest, burying his face against bare skin.

He continued shaking, letting the tears flow freely as the wolf above him stroked his hair and rubbed his back, humming soothingly.

"It's okay, you're okay now." The short, painful intakes of air steadily lengthened until it wasn't so painful anymore. Along with his breath came the ability to think clearly. His head hurt now, his thoughts were a little muddled, but he could differentiate fact from fiction.

Peter. His mind supplied the answer to his unasked question. Peter was holding him.

"There, there. That's it, easy now buddy." Stiles took a deep, shuddering breath, and relaxed his fingers from their clenched position. Peter nuzzled the top of his head.

He tried to reorient himself through the night terror. They were common whenever he got moved into a new home. He wondered if Peter had been warned about them, as some of his past owners had. Most of them didn't realize a panic attack was not just a small bout of nervous energy that could be driven away with a hug and a few nice words. They were seldom prepared for the screaming, the crying, the scratching, and kicking as he tried to get away from an unknown assailant, waking up out of breath and near out of his mind. It wasn't something he talked about if he could avoid it, wolves had less trouble understanding mental illness than physical ones, but it usually resulted in an endless stream of medications that made the world feel too loud and too quiet all at the same time.

Deucalion had been patient at first. He thought only way Stiles would ever be rid of them was if he meditated hard enough. When that didn't work he started plying him with pills. Then in the morning they would 'meditate' again and Stiles would feel just a little bit better. Deuc was never malicious about it, and the pills did make him feel better, but they also made him feel sluggish, tired, and forgetful.

"You want to take a shower?" Peter asked him.

Stiles shook his head. He could feel the cold sweat still dripping down his back, but the thought of being alone scared him. "Alright," Peter agreed amicably. He didn't seem like the same bitter, sarcastic man who'd kicked him off a roof and then dropped him on his back. His touches were gentle, calming. Stiles still hadn't stopped crying, but he was breathing again and that was something. He could think again. Hesitantly he laid his head back down onto Peters arm and closed his eyes.

\----

The sun was peeking over the horizon when at last Stiles fell back asleep.

Peter kept silent vigil over him. He listened as the sobs turned to whimpers turned to whines, and then finally into the uneasy sounds of rest. He continued to gently stroke the boys hair and hold him, long after his arm had gone numb from the weight.

_This is not 'trouble sleeping,'_ Peter thought bitterly, _and this is not 'perfectly healthy.'_ He had limited experience with humans, but he knew it wasn't normal for them to wake up screaming and sobbing and fighting to get away. He'd shouted when he saw Peters eyes, which flashed gold in an effort to provide comfort not fear.

He continued to watch for signs of regression or improvement. He had at last fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion, and only after routine petting and shushing. He continued to twitch and furrow his brow, but he was looking a bit better. His eyes were still red and puffy from crying, but his breathing had evened. In the morning light Peter could clearly see the trail his tears had left behind. His wolf hadn't known how to deal with the wailing pup, so he did the only thing he could think and wrapped himself around him as tightly as he could. It seemed to work, he'd calmed down eventually.

Peter thought back to Stiles earlier reaction in the kitchen, which now seemed like a dark precursor. The way he'd just seized up and starred at the wall like he'd realized something horrible. He'd started to tremble a little then, too, but Peter thought it was only nerves being in a new home. Deucalion said he could be 'excitable.' This behavior was a tad more than 'excitable.'

Maybe that was why Deucalion had been so eager to part with him. It certainly explained the myriad of medications. He didn't know whether Stiles had taken them before he went to bed or not, the bottle was at his side table but that was no confirmation.

He would never admit it out loud but the outburst left a disturbed feeling in his gut. It wasn't Stiles cries, or even the clawing that bothered him, but the smell. That god awful _smell_. It was putrid and foul, the scent of fear, desperation, and violent need covered the human like a shroud, mixed in with the very tangible odor of sweat and salt. The only time he ever smelt anything so strong and so internally malevolent was when his nephew Derek brought him a badly mangled bird.

_The birds wings were a mess; contorted back in the wrong direction. Its eyes bugged out in terror as it struggled to escape his hand, scrabbling with talons caked in blood. It had been hit by a car and left for dead, it would have died had Derek not found it and brought it to Peter. In an act of pity Peter reached out - ignoring its shrill cries - and snapped it's neck. Derek gasped in horror._

_"You could have healed him!" he objected, tears threatening his eyes. Hypocritical as Peter had once seem him proudly present a felled deer to his mother. Apparently only the healthy were deserving of death._

_"He would never fly again." Peter dropped the dead things body on the ground, its death would help fuel the body of another creature with a greater chance for life. Derek winced._

_"So?" Derek asked with unjustified anger. His sympathy for the blackbird was stupid but admirable._

_"What sort of life is that for a bird? Should I have let him live to spare your feelings?" Derek turned his head away. He could chose to believe Peter was being needlessly cruel if he wanted; a crueler fate would to let it live with no possibility of returning to the skies, where it belonged. _A bird that cannot fly would not want to be alive,_ he thought with disgust. "Would you want him to be kept in a cage, no autonomy of his own? How would you feel if you could never hunt again?" Derek would not meet his gaze._

Stiles was no bird, yet they smelled exactly the same. His wounds were not physical, but he was in as much pain. Even in his sleep he whimpered and clung like a frightened pup. The smell of his emotions, apprehensions, and anxieties ebbed away like water during a low tide; still present but receding.

If he were a better person he would have felt only concern for the boy and he did feel concern for him, but a more powering emotion was morbid curiosity over what exactly had happened to make him so fearful, and only in the midnight hour. He had been perfectly relaxed around Peter the previous morning and afternoon. A little spastic, but he hadn't show the same level of terror as he did now.

Whatever bothered Stiles had something to do with werewolves. He'd reacted suddenly and negatively to seeing the partially shifted eyes in the darkness. He hadn't shown any fear of Deucalion or Peter, so it had happened with a wolf before meeting either of them.

Peter considered calling Deucalion and telling him to take the boy back, but his wolf howled in protest. Getting rid of Stiles would mean living alone. Wolves weren't meant to be solitary creatures, and even if he sometimes hated his pack, his alpha, they were his pack. He needed them, if not for survival then for mental health. Being away from them wasn't easy, and having another presence so close by lessened the ache he felt to return.

Peter could not bring himself to move in with his sister again, and finding another human to keep would be time-consuming and intensive. Laura had been trying the legal way for years. At this point it was much simpler to keep Stiles and hope that with time his condition would improve. Until then, Peter would be there to comfort him.

\----

_Stiles tip-toed into the living room, having spotted Deucalions fancy, ecologically friendly, car in the driveway. His feelings about his owners return were conflicting; happy that he wasn't alone any longer, and annoyed that he'd left without telling him. At least he had Ennis to keep him company._

_He moved silently over to the fridge, opening the door and pulling out a carton of orange juice._

_"Stiles."_

_“Ah!” Stiles jumped, fumbling the carton in his hands. Whirling around he came face-to-face with the wolf, wearing black pants and a gray sweatshirt. Deuc smiled at him, patting his head the way one would greet a friendly dog._

_"It's nice to see you again; what have you been up to?" Stiles gulped._

_“I’m not feeling very well today, just gonna get some orange juice and-” Deucalions eyes centered on him in an uncomfortably calculating way. Stiles shifted his weight and cut himself off, biting his tongue._

_“Why don’t you come join me? I was just about to do some yoga. It would be good for you.” He moved past Stiles to pull a water bottle out of the fridge. Stiles groaned, ignoring the look of disapproval he received._

_“I’m a human,” he complained. “My body shouldn’t bend that way.” Deucalion shut the fridge and took a swig from his water bottle._

_“Nonsense. Exercise is very important, especially for young humans.” If he starts lecturing me on the 'frailty of the human condition' I'll chuck his yoga mats out the window. Again. His face must have reflected his internal thought process, because Deucalion gave him a stern warning look._

_Stiles eyes left the offending blue mats to meet his owners gaze. “I don't think it's a good idea. I don't feel good- I might hurt myself.”_

_“I think it's an excellent idea,” Deucalion continued, unswayed. “Unless, you'd rather chat first? We can catch up, and then-” Stiles grimaced. The last thing he wanted was to hear about some boring pack meeting._

_“Fine, I'll do yoga,” he conceded with a pout, crossing his arms together._

_“Excellent!” Deucalion said, cheerfully pushing the human towards the mats. “Come now, come come.” He ushered Stiles into the living room, prying the orange juice out of his hand and setting it on the table._

_“This isn’t a natural body posture,” Stiles complained, trying in vain to keep from toppling over as he assumed the tree pose alongside his owner. “I don't even think I'm doing it right.”_

_“You’re getting better. Think of where you were two months ago,” Deuc offered helpfully. It wasn't fair to compare the natural strength and agility of a werewolf to that of a hapless human who spent every day indoors, locked inside a flat. "I'm very proud of your improvement. After this I'll make you a kale smoothie." If it was meant to be a reward, it came out sounding more as a punishment. Stiles made a face he thankfully couldn't see._

_“Three weeks ago I was happy and my muscles didn’t hurt.”_

_"Would you rather meditate on your own?"_

_“Noooo,” Stiles whined, shaking his head. The meditation room was his least favorite part of the house, even with his limited mobility he refused to enter it on his own. More often than not he would be sent there to 'reflect' after he'd been caught misbehaving. It really was just a room with a yoga mat, medicine ball, and a balancing block; for a normal teenager it may have been a very effective form of conditioning. There was even a large window with a nice view of the city streets below. But for Stiles and his ADHD it was nothing but boring and confined. He would pace about the small space like a caged tiger, until Deucalion, realizing its futileness, would let him out._

_When he discovered his spark the first thing he learned was how to open a locked door from the inside._

_"I'm not trying to punish you, Stiles," Deucalion said with a friendly smile, patting the human on the back. The sudden contact cost him his balance and the foot resting against his knee dropped back onto the mat to avoid a face-plant. "I just want you to find your inner peace."_

_"I don't think there is such a thing, not for me. Have you seen me? I'm all full of tics, and twitches, and uncontrollable spasming." Stiles waved his arms about in emphasis, to which Deucalion responded by grabbing his wrists gently but firmly, pulling them together so they were centered at his chest, just above his heart. He coaxed Stiles fingers up so they laid flat against each other._

_"You just have to believe in yourself, that's all." Stiles gave a feeble smile and nodded. Deucalion believed internal control solved all problems._

_Stiles believed Deucalion would make a very charming cult leader._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depiction of a child being taken from his parents, description of bird death/suffering, and night terrors. Kale smoothies. (I like Kale smoothies. Don't tell anyone.) Comments make me happy.


	4. Amicable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles go to the store.

_Stiles could not, would not love this woman. She wanted to raise him as her son but that could never be. No matter how many presents, or new clothes she bought him. She was not his mother. She was not his family._

_She tried explaining to Stiles that his parents were gone; they had died in a car crash. Stiles refused to accept it. When he started crying and begged for his mother she held him close, telling him everything would be alright. She would take care of him._

_Stiles shoved her away with tiny hands, glaring as his eyes watered._

_"You're not my mom!" he shouted in his shrill, childs voice. She winced at the fury behind his words. She held on to him and petted his hair softly. She explained that she had lost a family member once too - her son- she knew how it felt. It was why she wanted to adopt in the first place._

_He didn't care._

_He waited patiently for her to make her weekly trip to the grocery store. He bundled himself up in the new jacket she had bought him, and slipped quietly out the window._

_He made it four miles, trekking through the lightly layered snow down to the interstate. He thought the snowfall would be enough to cover his scent, but he was wrong. He should have waited for rain._

_The woman found him wet and shivering on the side of the road. She grabbed him in a hug, holding him tightly. "Don't ever do that again!" she scolded. "I was worried sick about you." Stiles did not return the hug. He squirmed in her arms, trying to get back onto his feet._

_"I have to go," he said. "My dad got hurt. I have to go find him. I have to find my mom." She pulled away and looked into his eyes. There was no concern for her, for her worry. He didn't even look back, just past her, towards the intersection he thought might take him back from where he came._

_"Let's get you home, then," she said, smiling a soft, sad smile._

_The agency picked him up again three days later. Stiles listened to the conversation from the table, where he sat coloring pictures of the big oak tree in his backyard. His real backyard._

_"He's not happy here," he heard the woman say, with pain in her voice. "There must be some relative, someone he trusts?" He looked up from his coloring when another presence entered the room. The same wolf who'd taken him from his parents stood in the doorway. Stiles felt a panicked jump in his heart._

_The wolf approached, a deceptive smile on his face and arms outstretched. Stiles, without thinking threw his cup at him. It was plastic and contained only juice but he threw it anyways as if it might deter the wolf. He easily dodged it, the smile dropping from his face. Stiles slid off the chair but before he could get away he was hefted up into the wolves arms._

_“Easy now, buddy,” he spoke calmly, shifting Stiles so he was cradled more comfortably against his chest. Stiles bit him._

_“Feisty little fucker,” the wolf grunted, glaring at the irate child. He easily detached the boys teeth from his shoulder._

_“I want to go home,” Stiles looked up at him with an anger too palpable to come from a child, he clenched his weak fists into the mans jacket. ._

_“I’m taking you home,” the wolf said, exasperated. The forced smile returned to his face._

_“Really?” A small spark of hope ignited in Stiles heart_

_“Yes, really.” As he was carried off they passed by the woman who’d adopted him. Stiles waved to her. She waved back. Her eyes were red - teary red - and the smile she gave him was sad, but accepting. Stiles felt a little bad for being so mean to her, but she was not his mother. He wanted his mother. He wanted his home._

_He would not be taken there._

\---

Stiles eyes opened groggily, resentfully. The sunlight flooding the room made him wince and turn his head down towards the pillow. He felt gross, uncomfortable, and emberassed. It didn't take long for the previous days activities to come flooding back to him. Part of him wanted to stay hidden underneath the blanket forever. He did make a wonderful first impression on people.

Shifting uncomfortably up onto his elbows he noticed two hand-shaped bruises on either side of his arms. Peter must have tried shaking him awake. He remembered being curled up and crying like a child onto the older mans bare chest. At present the only sign Peter had been there at all were the marks on his body, and a small indentation in the pillow where Peters head would have lain. The sun was high in the sky - albeit hidden behind a mess of stormy gray clouds - so Stiles surmised he'd probably squirreled away in his study as he had the day before. He was relieved they hadn't woken up together.

He had to peel himself up from the bed- sweat and tears made an awful glue. Making a mental note to ask Peter about the washer and dryer situation he made his way to the shower. It wasn't hard to find, he'd explored most of the house yesterday and found it to be profoundly boring, with the exception of the large library that took up most of the third floor. He'd spent most of his afternoon rifling through Peters books and making a small pile in the corner of ones related to or written by humans. He hoped there would be time to read them all before he was moved off to a new owner.

He kept his shower short. He was still feeling on edge and being naked and vulnerable in an unfamiliar place did not help, though the hot water cascading down his back did soothe his tense muscles. His growling stomach and the lingering anxiety kept him from fully enjoying it.

After he'd showered and rifled through his box of clothes to find something comfortable to wear he made his way down to the kitchen. To his surprise Peter was already there.

He chewed on his lip as he thought how to approach. Peter was at his laptop again, a hardly digested breakfast still on his plate. The clock on the wall above read noon, earlier than he'd thought.

He didn't know whether to offer an explanation or an apology; but there was no explanation, not one he cared to share anyways. Should he thank him? Should he just ignore it? His heart and his brain - unusually cooperative with each other - were begging him to just pretend like it never happened and move on, but what if Peter thought he was being rude? He may not have been fond of him but it still seemed a poor way to repay someone for spending their night coddling and shushing him while he shook like a frightened animal.

"Your breakfast is cold," Peter didn't look up from his laptop as he spoke, saving Stiles from having to make the first move. The boys shoulders relaxed. It seemed Peter was just as unwilling to talk about last night as he was. At least now were both wearing shirts.

"Thanks," he muttered, looking at the plate that had been left for him. Suddenly he didn't feel so much like eating. He took the it anyways and sat down across from the wolf, who still paid him no attention.

"What are you doing?" he asked, if only to break the awkward silence.

"Working." Peter curtly replied. Apparently not even a night of cuddling could get through his rough exterior. Stiles rolled his eyes.

"I could tell. On what?" He had to be well off to afford the large house, and whatever extravagant fee Deucalion had charged for him.

"On things that I work on."

"Very descriptive. I have a much better understanding of you now." Stiles said, around a mouthful of waffle, waving his syrupy fork in the air. The waffle was cold, but he was hungry enough to suffer through a few more bites. Peter sighed.

"I'm going to the bookstore later; you can come if you want." Stiles tilted his head to one side. He did like bookstores. They were one of the few places he felt connected to his species; many of the books inside were written by humans, and he'd always been fond of superheros and mystery novels.

"Would it inconvenience you?"

"A little," Peter grumbled.

"I'd love to go." Stiles grinned, always happy to play antagonist.

\---

Peter would have just asked Stiles if he wanted to come, but the boy seemed the 'oppositional defiance' sort. He hoped getting out of the house would settle him down some after the rocky night. He was inwardly pleased with the mutinous personality. Stiles was turning out to be a very interesting young human.

After receiving the wireless password yesterday Stiles scuttled off to fulfill his promise of remaining quiet. After a few hours without sight or sound of the boy Peter became concerned. He started checking up on him every couple of hours to ensure he hadn't accidentally killed himself.

He most often found Stiles in the library, compiling an impressive collection of books in the corner. A few times he caught him curled up underneath the gray throw blanket from the living room, hunched over with a book in one hand and his antiquated tablet in the other.

He didn't really need to purchase more books. His library was impressive, but a new addition was always welcome, and at the very least he might learn something about his strange new cohabitant. Personally he preferred ebooks, but his heart held a certain fondness for the older volumes, some of which had been 'liberated' from Talias control. Only the interesting ones though.

Once in the car Stiles returned to his talkative self. Peter took a deep breath, and tried to tune out the obnoxiously chattering voice beside him.

"Why did you want a human?" the question came in the midst of a rant on medical practices in the civil war, most of which Peter could have lived the rest of his life not knowing. The question caught him off guard. Stiles turned away from the window to await his answer. His head cocked slightly to one side.

"Because I'm allergic to cats," Peter lied easily without skipping a beat. He wasn't, but it was an easier, and less immature explanation then 'because I want a pack, and can't have one.' He wasn't sure how the human would feel about being used as a surrogate beta, but it didn't really matter either way. Stiles accepted the answer with a hum and resumed his previous line of dialogue without giving thought on the matter.

They were only in the store for ten minutes before Stiles came bounding up to him again. “I want this book,” he demanded, holding out a large and rather uninteresting volume. It was dark green with no title on the cover. “I want coffee, too,” he demanded.

“Is please in your vocabulary, Stiles?” The boy blinked.

“Please, I want this book? Please, I want coffee?”

Peter sighed, taking the book from him with one hand, while fishing out a ten from his pocket with the other. He placed it onto Stiles already outstretched palm.

"Bring me a cappuccino.” Peter flipped open the book he'd been handed. "Eighteenth Century Shamanism?" he read with a quirked brow. Stiles had already disappeared. Strange boy, he thought, setting the book down on a nearby table and returning to his browsing.

When ten more minutes passed and Stiles had not returned he wondered why he didn't just get the coffee himself. He barely knew Stiles, so why should he implicitly trust him? He grumbled his way over to the coffee counter, half expecting to see the human had chosen to ignore his request and bought coffee only for himself.

Stiles wasn't there, and neither was his scent. Evidently he had not made it that far. He followed the scent of anxiety back to a small reading nook, complete with comfy couches and overstuffed chairs. Sitting on the floor, a steaming Styrofoam mug at his side, was Stiles, amongst a gaggle of girls, wearing a stupid happy grin on his face.

The girls were all betas- pretty ones at that- presumably Stiles age, maybe a little older. One of the women was running her hands through his hair, while yet another felt up his arm. His coffee lay forgotten by his side.

"You're sooo cold," the brunette complained, pulling him into a hug. Stiles grin widened.

"You're so warm," he said sweetly, wrapping his arms around the girl and burying his head in her neck. The others giggled, while the one who'd stroked his hair pushed them apart. Little sneak, thought Peter, not knowing whether to feel proud, annoyed, or amused.

"You have to share him," the blonde shot a glare at her brunette friend.

"There's enough of me for everyone." Stiles spread his arms in a placating manner, allowing the first beta to reclaim him in her hold, while the second petted his head.

The interaction was amusing to watch. Most wolves hadn't met humans before, they likened them to animals like monkeys or orangutans. The girls would think him too simple, too weak, to hold deviance in his heart. They were wrong.

Peter had met his human cousins before, and though most of them hadn't survived past age thirteen he knew well enough that they could be just as tricky, just as manipulative as any were. They also had the same hormones as any were.

The corner of his mouth turned up unwillingly when Stiles spotted him sitting against the corner. He gave a wink and a shrug, and turned back towards his new friends.

There was no harm in letting Stiles continue his facade of 'perfect, lovable pet,' for a while longer, so he left the boy to his devices while he got a cappuccino. After placing his order he sat at the bar, watching while Stiles was hugged, petted, and praised, all while smiling his thanks. He could appreciate the subtle ways Stiles maintained his look of innocence, wanting nothing more than to love and be loved. He kept his eyes widened, hapless, his movements trusting and sweet. He could always appreciate a decent deception.

He'd been born with a natural talent for manipulation. It wasn't hard to get others to do what he wanted, fascinating him to the point where he engaged in countless lies and half-truths out of sheer boredom. Stiles deception intrigued him. He was doing it not out of boredom, but of desire. The betas were pretty, and he could see him preen at every compliment and gentle touch they bestowed upon him. Even if he took care not to show it too much.

But the routine quickly got boring. Stiles ability went no further than a sweet smiles and endearing looks. From experience he was a poor liar, and so he didn't try. Once Peter watched his fill of Stiles being scent-marked by stranges he rose from his chair and approached quietly.

"Stiles and I must be going now, ladies" Peter said with a smile, having paid for the coffee and books. He could be charming as well when he wanted to be.

"Awwww," the girls whined. The one with her arms wrapped around him made a displeased noise and pouted.

"Buy him more sweaters," she demanded. "He's too cold." Peter suppressed his eye roll and patted his pet on the head.

"I'll do that. C'mon now, Stiles, let's get going," Stiles received a last hug from each of the girls he'd enchanted. His scent remained surprisingly calm and uninterested, even when one of them nuzzled against him. Either he was completely asexual, or just had very good self control. He picked up a paper cup that lay neglected, still half-full. As they left the building Stiles passed him the ten he'd been given earlier.

“Here,” he said as he passed it back into his hands, sipping at his drink. Peter looked pointedly at the Styrofoam cup.

"Forget to do something, Stiles?" He raised a brow, wondering if he'd charmed the barista out of a coffee as well.

"Samantha bought it for me," he grinned. Peter rolled his eyes, but he felt a sliver of amusement, and a little of pride. He didn't notice he was still smiling.

"And I'm sure you were all too willing to show your appreciation." Peter smirked and took a sip of his drink.

"Hey, hey, don't get jealous,"Stiles waved his arms in that spastic way he was prone to. "If you want to cuddle me I'm right here."

"I think I got enough last night, thanks," he chuckled. Red rose from Stiles cheeks, he averted his eyes, mumbling quietly.

"Can we just never speak about that again, please?"

"Of course, darling," Peter wrapped an arm around Stiles shoulders, steering him in the direction of the bakery down the street, an evil spark in his eyes. "Let's see how many muffins your cute face can buy."

The answer was twelve. Stiles licked strawberry glaze from his hands the entire car ride home.

The rest of the day was spent reading in the library. Stiles settled himself onto the bay window, where his compilation of books at his feet. The one he'd picked from the store resting on his legs. He could not tear his eyes away from it.

That wasn't to say, however, that he was still. He would shift constantly between positions. Most of the time he sat cross-legged, with his back against the wall or the window. More comically he would hang upside down, with his feet resting on the glass, and the book propped against his stomach, hands behind his head.

The sill was one of Peters favorite spots, he liked being able to see the forest surrounding him, liked how remote it was. He was surprised with how easily his wolf conceded the space to Stiles, and how accepting it had been of another presence in his den. Wolves were social creatures, sure, but Stiles was an outsider whom he'd known for a day. He was known for being territorial as well, it was one of the main reasons he lived out in the middle of the forest instead of at the family compound with his sister and their relatives. He didn't like people touching his things

Although, technically, Stiles was one of his things, and thanks to their late night cuddle-session he smelled of Peter, to the point where a shower still left traces of scent in his hair and on the back of his neck. Everything combined with his panic the previous night made him appeared less of an intrusive personality and more of a misbegotten pup.

Peter watched him from his periphery, tuning in to the steady beat of his heart. He still had no idea what had upset Stiles so greatly, or what was likely to set him off again. It was possible the whole situation had been nothing more than a bad dream and bad medication, but his intuition told him it was something else. Something darker. He was good at sensing darkness.

It wasn't until after midnight that Stiles head started to drop and his eyes were lulling shut. He uncurled himself and stood with a stretch and a yawn. Peter raised his head at the sudden movement in the corner of his eye.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, breaking their amicable silence. His hair was mussed from where it'd rubbed against the wall and floor. Peter nodded, flipping to the next page of his book.

"Stiles?" the boy turned back to him, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. He carried the green book under one arm, practically dragging his feet as he went.

"If you decide to have another 'episode,' you'll have to come to my room. I'm not sleeping in your bed again." Stiles was out the door before he'd finished his sentence, the door slamming shut behind him. Peter rolled his eyes. For a second there he had forgotten he was dealing with a teenager.

In the middle of the night a putrid, rotting, aroma filled the house. A heartbeat raced, and a scream followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update in 4-5 days. This one was supposed to come out yesterday, but college life. Again, comments make me happy n.n


	5. Astringent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Peter and Stiles bonding time, and Stiles first meeting with Ennis. Stiles is 17 during the flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of notes for chapter warnings.

_The giant looked comically out of place in the small flat. Stiles might have laughed, if his airways hadn't been constricted by the large hand wrapped around his throat, dangling him a foot off the ground. He kicked in a futile attempt to free himself. This is how I die, he miserably thought. Being strangled to death by a giant. His vision started to fade, his grip on the wolves arm going lax. As his hands fell to his side he was dropped rather abruptly onto his ass. The shock snapped him back into full reality, gasping down painful amounts of oxygen into his deprived lungs. The wolf crouched down next to him._

_"I am Ennis, I am a friend of your master," he said, giving Stiles a pat on the head which made him wince. This time there was no pain following the close contact._

_"I am fragile," Stiles whined as his voice returned to him, rough and hoarse. In a few hour he knew he would have a bruise spanning the entire length of his neck. Ennis grinned- a sadistic, evil grin._

_"You are." The hand reached for his throat again. Stiles scrambled back from the threatening limb, eliciting a low growl from the alpha. Stiles stilled immediately, suffocating to death would be easier than getting completely ripped to shreds. The hand found its place on the back of his neck, claws pricking his skin. Stiles hunched up his shoulders and clenched his eyes closed._

_A few tense seconds passed, the hand pressing firmly down on his neck, and then it was lifted. Stiles squinted his eyes opened and blinked, just in time to catch the black veins running up Ennis' arm. The pain in his throat was gone._

_“Better?” Stiles blinked and nodded, relaxing his hunched shoulders. The giant grinned again, and gave him an apologetic pat on the back. "I did not mean to hurt you." It wasn't an apology, but he sounded genuine. Okay, so maybe his grin hadn't been so sadistic and evil, maybe he actually did feel bad for hurting the human. It wasn't enough to make him forgive the almost-murder, but he could at least pretend._

_"S'okay," he said. "Thanks for draining my pain. You're pretty strong there, buddy." His voice came out smooth and unaffected, unlike the rasping wheeze he'd had only moments before._

_"I am." Ennis flexed his muscles proudly, extending his claws to Stiles. "Feel," he demanded. Experimentally Stiles touched his fingertips down onto the hard bicep. He felt nothing but rock._

_"Woah. You're really strong," which was saying something, considering most of the people he knew could bench press a car. The wolf - Ennis - puffed out his chest in pride._

_"I brought you food." Ennis stood, dragging Stiles up with him. The hand that closed around his arm was much gentler now, though it was a far stretch from comfortable. It was Stiles assumption that this was just as gentle as Ennis knew how to be. It would never be proven incorrect._

_The food Ennis brought was much more fattening and greasy than what Deucalion usually fed him; to Stiles immense satisfaction._

_“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Stiles asked offhandedly as he shoveled groceries into the fridge. His system was a little haphazard, but no one was ever around long enough to notice._

_“Okay,” Ennis agreed. Stiles stiffened a little. He hadn't really expected him to say yes. His stomach churned in a mixture of delight and apprehension. On one hand – social activity; and on the other – possible murder._

_“Unless, you don't want me too?” the wolf cocked his head to one side. He was putting cereal boxes into the top cupboard, which Stiles was too proud to admit he couldn't reach._

_“No, it's fine!” Stiles shrugged off his worries. “I've never gotten to cook for someone before, should be fun.” 'Fun' wasn't quite the word, but it wasn't boring either. Ennis watched him pull spices and seasonings out of the cabinet with curiosity, sniffing at and stealing pieces of raw chicken when he thought it wouldn't be noticed._

_"You're too scrawny," Ennis pointed out, aiming a jab at his side. He effectively jerked away from the assault, skipping back a few steps, “and short. You should eat more.” Stiles furrowed his brow, setting the skillet on medium. He had a sneaking suspicion that the wolf preferred his meat rare._

_"I'm not short. I'm taller than Deuc is." Ennis looked skeptical. "By at least an inch! C'mon, I'm five foot eleven! That's average height for a guy- werewolf or human." He had very few physical traits he looked upon with pride, but his height was one of them. He waved his arms about to emphasize how not-short he was._

_"Deucs scrawny too." Ennis shrugged, relenting. "You both are." Stiles sighed and flipped the meat onto its side. He pretended not to notice when Ennis reached over and stole the last remaining raw slice on the plate._

_"Is there anyone who isn't scrawny, compared to you?" Ennis stood at least five inches taller than Stiles, and looked to weigh just under that of a metric ton._

_"No," he answered honestly. Stiles chuckled, turned off the skillet, and placed the two pieces of chicken onto separate plates. Before he could hand one over, Ennis grabbed it - still steaming - ripped it in half, and shoved the entirety in his mouth. Stiles eyes widened in horrified awe. Ennis swallowed without taking a breath._

_"Jesus, don't fucking choke!" Ennis shrugged, grinning again._

_"Here," he ripped off a small piece of the remaining half with his claws, holding it out for him. Stiles shook his head._

_"No, no I'm good really. I have my own."_

_"Take," Ennis grunted. "Eat." The way he furrowed his brows suggested there really wasn't much choice in the manner._

_"Uh, thank you?" Stiles picked up the piece of offered meat with two fingers, popping it into his mouth. Ennis ripped off some more and held it out. "Seriously, I have my own food, I'm fine," Stiles said with a self concious laugh._

_He'd basically been raised by wolves, and knew the symbolism behind hand-feeding in their culture. It was a form of care for them. He'd often seen younger wolves present meals to their elders, or to the sick members of the pack. In the past if he'd fallen ill the usual solution -after draining his pain- was to force-feed him. Ennis had commented several times on his weight during their encounter; this was most likely his version of nursing Stiles back to health. The only issue was that Stiles wasn't sick._

_In order to appease his temporary caretaker Stiles pulled his own chicken towards himself and started picking it apart with his fingers, and shoving it in his mouth. Ennis nodded approvingly and devoured his own remaining food in seconds. Stiles took considerably longer to chew the mass of chicken he'd shoved into his mouth._

_"I will be leaving soon. Do you need anything before I go?" Stiles shook his head, swallowing down the lump. His heart ached a little at the threat of being alone._

_“Where's Deuc?” he asked, once he'd choked down enough food to talk again. Ennis shrugged._

_“Italy, I think. He only said to check on you and bring you food. He'll be back to care for you in a few more weeks, I'm sure.” A few weeks? In a few weeks I'll have gone crazy from isolation._

_"Will you come back before then?" He kept his voice even, refusing to let it crack despite the rising waters in his heart._

_"If Deuc asks me too.” Something on his face or in his scent must have tipped Ennis off to his turmoil. His blue eyes furrowed and flashed. “He said you were fine being alone; are you fine being alone, Stiles?” Ennis tilted his head to one side._

_"Yes," Stiles answered without missing a beat. He played with the hem of his sleeve, pulling at an errant strand. He didn't look at Ennis. He tried not to think about just how quite the place was with no one in it but him. He started when he heard a grunting laugh._

_"You are a liar," the rough hand pressed down on Stiles head again, ruffling his hairs in a bruisingly affectionate way. Stiles grimaced and wormed his way out from underneath the hand"I will come back before then."_

_He left after making sure the doors and windows were secure, and giving Stiles a few more pats, softer than the first. He told him he'd come back, and Stiles gave a weak smile at the promise. What reason did he have to return? Once he was gone he was free to do as he wished, and Deucalion certainly didn't care if he got a little lonely._

_Stiles watched him leave with a constricting feeling growing in his chest. A thick, rough snake coiled around his lungs. The air thickened around him. He crawled onto the sofa and hugged one of the pillows close. He fumbled for the remote for a few minutes, flicking on the television once he found it. The sound of people talking on the news calmed him. They weren't humans but they were people. He missed people._

_He missed everyone._

\------

He continued to shake as Peter gently but firmly pulled him up by his arm. He stood on bambi legs while being dragged down the hall, stumbling every few feet. Peter supported him by his elbow as they walked.

He was pushed down onto another bed, with a thicker blanket and softer pillows. He heard the wolf leave and he let out a wrecked sob. His breathing was little more than a hoarse gasp. He was alone again. He didn't like being alone. He wanted Peter to come back.

After what felt like hours, but what he knew could only be minutes, two warm arms wrapped around him again and he was pulled close. He gasped sharply as his airways opened up and he could breathe again. It wasn't easy but he could feel his cheat heaving.

His hands were still tightly fisted into Peters clothes - he hadn't realized he'd grabbed onto him again. He also hadn't realized Peters hand was in his hair, softly massaging the back of his head.

Peter said nothing, choosing to let the soft regularity of his breathing hush the rapid staccato in Stiles heart. Muscle by muscle he started to relax and unwind himself. Slowly his fingers loosened from around Peters shirt. He opened his eyes, when he did water spilled out of them. They burned from the salt of his tears.

Peters head rested on the pillow next to him. His hair was mussed, and his shirt was ruffled in the places Stiles had clawed at. His blue eyes were soft, but his lips were pressed together in a tight line.

"Feeling better?" Peter asked in a worn voice. Stiles nodded and pulled away as much as Peters hold would allow. A hand resting between his shoulder blades prevented him from moving too far. "Good, now shut up and go to sleep."

Unable to think of anything else to do, or so, and with his tongue feeling like sandpaper, Stiles resigned himself to another night of shaky cuddling and fitful sleep.

\-----------------

The following day he avoided Peter like the plague, ducking behind chairs and hiding under desks, just to remain unseen. At the end of the third night when he retreated to his own room he was seized roughly by the scruff of his neck and pulled back.

“You,” Peter hissed, “are sleeping with me.” Stiles blinked at him.

“You could at least buy me a drink first." Peter rolled his eyes.

“You’ve kept me up for three days with your nonstop screaming and whimpering. Either you sleep in my bed, or you don't go to sleep at all.” Before Stiles could even open his mouth to protest he was being dragged down the hallway by his scruff, only to be tossed onto the sheets.

“Why should I listen to you?” Stiles glared. He really did hate being bossed around.

“Because,” Peter smirked, eyes slitted dangerously, “I am your owner.”

What proceeded in the darkly decorated bedroom thereafter, was the most scathing, sarcastic cuddle session anyone would ever bare witness to. A pair of venomous snakes super-glued together could not have held the same amount of animosity.

But it worked. Stiles found his eyes slowly drifting shut underneath the watchful eye of his guardian. He woke a few times out of breath, with a fluttering of his heart, but he did not scream. The noises he made were often nothing more than sharp gasps or a couple of whines, before Peters hand softly rubbing his head or forearm would lull him back into sleep.

Thus began their uneasy routine. In the morning Stiles would wake to find Peter already gone, making breakfast for the two of them in his kitchen. He did not mention or even acknowledged that they had slept in the same bed together at any point during the day, and that was perfectly fine with Stiles. So long as it was not brought up, he could tolerate it.

If Stiles went to bed sooner than Peter, he would appear in the doorway at even the faintest of whimpers. He would pull his shirt off with a long suffering sigh, and crawl into the bed next to him.

Stiles would reflexively reach for his spark when he heard Peter approaching, knowing if he didn’t do something to dilute it his scent would let Peter know exactly how he felt about a bare, muscled chest. It was an embarrassing reaction, but one that could not be helped. He was, afterall, a hormonal teenager.

His sleeping patterns improved, but his mood did not. He couldn't quite place the feeling of disquiet growing within him. He'd lay his head down at breakfast and dinner and scowl at his newest caretaker.

When Peter asked what was eating him, Stiles would roll his eyes - a behavior he’d developed during his time with Peter - and say, “flesh eating virus.” Peter would just smile and condescendingly ask, “should I have you put down then?”

Among his bizarre, developing needs he started to feel a subtle longing for a very brutish werewolf named Ennis. His feelings were not romantic in any capacity, closer to the longing a younger brother felt for an elder one. At the very least he wished he'd gotten to say goodbye. Ennis was a monster to be sure, but he allowed Stiles the freedom to choose. His intelligence was so often underestimated by his peers that he could sympathize with the humans plight. He missed Ennis; he missed a lot of people.

It was one of the things he was starting to like about Peter. Despite his clear displeasure over certain things Stiles chose to do - such as eating junk food near constantly, and jabbering nonstop when the mood struck him - he did not exhibit the usual obsessiveness or controlling attitude owners in the past had.

There was no obsessive behavior, no all organic foods, not even an over analytical sniff. He once asked why Peter didn't care whether or not he ate junk food. Peter sighed, interrupted from his work for the tenth time.

“If you die of heart disease, it will be no ones fault but your own. Enjoy the carotid arteries.”

“I’m just a human,” Stiles said with a shrug, mimicking the voice of his seventh owner. “I can’t fend or decide for myself.”

“You’re smarter than you look, Stiles, you’d have to be,” but the corner of peters lips would turn up as he said it, a small often invisible smile in place of the usual scowl. His banter, and even the insults were playful, not meant to seriously be taken to heart.

He started going outside more, a luxury he hadn't been able to enjoy while in the care of Deucalion. So long as he stayed off the roof Peter didn't seem to care where he went.

The cloudy sky above threatened rain but did not deliver. Stiles kicked some golden orange leaves out of the way, making a circular dry patch on the ground below. He sat down and rested his head against the cold, russet colored bark. The pallet of the yard seemed too warm, too welcoming for the stormy clouds suspended above.

The discordant sea of colors perfectly aligned themselves to his equally discordant state of mind. He often felt as if he were teetering on two completely opposite ways of being. For one, he wanted to be happy and thankful for all that he had. He had never been abused, despite the fact that should someone get it into their head that they wanted to hurt him, there could be little he could do to stop it. Some of his families had been very warm and welcoming towards him, giving him gifts, and including him in their family celebrations.

And yet, there was the constant, unbroken knowledge that he was nothing more than a pet to them, and he hated it. For most of his life he had been treated like a doll - an expensive, fragile doll, but a doll still. Being jostled from home to home, even if they were nice homes, took a toll on him. He felt much older than the nineteen years his paperwork said he was.

Peter didn't make him feel that way. He treated him less like a doll and more like an insolent child, which maybe he was, but it wasn't because he was human. This was just how he treated everyone, with sardonic replies, eye rolls, and just generally amused contempt. It wasn't perfect but it worked.

He didn't dislike peters home, either, it reminded him of his parents old home. The big oak tree he sat under reminded him of the one he and his mother had sat under and read books; the same one he climbed to the very top. His father nearly had a heart attack when he saw him up there. Claudia just smiled and said he would come down when he was ready. He had always been a little rebellious.

Stiles pulled his legs up to his chest, disturbing the fallen leaves as he did so. It was hard not to feel lonely sometimes. The autumn air started to burn at his cheeks, icy whips tossing his short hairs. But he was not ready to go back inside yet. If he was tearing up he blamed it on the cold.

He missed his family, but he had no way of contacting them. He'd long ago stopped asking his owners for help with the matter. They would frown and tell him his parents were deceased, gently explain he could not see them again, and they were terribly sorry for his loss.

This, was one of the few situations in which Stiles would become truly, blindingly, angry. His parents were not dead. They had not died in a car crash. He had seen them, and they were alive. He accepted the fact that the head injury his father sustained - burned into his brain like a branding iron - may have caused lasting damage. He could even accept that it might have been enough to kill him. But his mother was alive. She had to be alive. But for how long, and would he see her again?

How many families would he go through before he died? Would he make it to old age or would he die illness and ignorance? Would he know when his parents died? There wasn't a soul on earth who could tell him the answer to that question.

\----

Peter was not oblivious to his humans mental state. He watched him from the window, looking out at the yard, where Stiles sat with his back against the trunk. He tried to ignore it, but the scent permeated his home. To his credit he wasn't crying.

He wondered if he should try to comfort the human, if he were a better person it wouldn't have even been a question. But Peter wasn't a better person, he had nothing to say to him, nothing that would help, and nothing worth going outside over. Besides, he did his fill of comforting between the hours of eleven p.m. and eight a.m.

He doubted Stiles would let himself be comforted anyways. At night a soothing touch was all it took to make him melt, but during the day he'd scowl and shake the hands away. He wasn't about to start cuddling the boy during the day either. There were certain boundaries he would not cross, no matter how pretty Stiles looked with his face flushed.

A ringing from his cellphone broke his train of thought. He cast a glance towards it and grimaced. 'Talia' flashed across the screen. He would have ignored the call; but he'd already ignored it twice. He clicked the button to connect and took a deep breath.

"Peter," a warm voice spoke in gentle cadences. "How are you?" He thought about explaining to his sister exactly how he made his living, he was certain it would bring on a conniption, once she realized the kinds of unethical activities her younger brother had engaged in, but then he'd have to deal with her posse of sycophant betas and the unending questions she'd have for him. Now was not the time, but the thought of her perfectly poised face twisting into one of disbelief, and than to anger made the voice on the other end of the phone slightly more tolerable.

"Fine," he spat out. "What do you want?" Talia sighed from her end.

"I just got off the phone with our old neighbor, Deucalion." Peters claws flicked out. He'd been trying to get in touch with the man since Stiles first panic attack. His calls were always sent straight to voicemail.

"Oh?"

"He said you had adopted a pet of his. He wanted to know how this 'Stiles' was doing?" Bullshit, if he really wanted to know how Stiles was doing he'd answer his phone. The only contact he received was an e-mail list of Stiles medications; most of which were either illegal or low-grade tranquilizers and holistic vitamins.

"What kind of breed is he?"

"What?" He furrowed his brow, taping his hands along the tables edge. Outside the wind rustled and the sulking human pulled his hood down further over his reddened cheeks and nose.

"His breed? Is Stiles a dog or a cat? Deucalion was pretty vague on the subject."

Peter paused for a moment. "Stiles is a human,” said human had picked himself up and was heading back towards the house, hands shoved into his pockets. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

"A human? You're watching a human?"

“Yes,” Peter let the condescension drip from his words without restraint. “Stiles is a human boy. He's nineteen, and I'm not just watching him, I own him.” Stiles was his, and he would make sure she knew that.

The door creaked open and Stiles slipped inside, letting it slam shut behind him. He shook his head, freeing a few leaves from their imprisonment in his hair.

Talia interrupted before Peter could scold him. "What was that?" she sounded like a clucking hen.

"Someone isn't being very careful with my things," he glared at the boy, who shrugged and pulled a water bottle from the fridge. He still looked like he'd gotten the taste of raw lemon stuck in his mouth.

"Is that Stiles? May I speak to-"

"No," Peter said, waving Stiles off with one hand. "He's sick. Very sick. He needs to rest." Stiles did not move, tilting his head to one side and staring at him with squinted eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but a dark glare shut him up.

"He's sick?" Maternal concern colored her voice. "Should I call a doctor?" Peters internal fire flared up. At the end of the night he was the one soothing Stiles to sleep, pacifying the demons that leached at his dreams.

"Not that sick. He just has the flu, Talia. They get it all the time." The desire to hang up was a strong one.

"Oh, well, if you think he does-"

"If I think he does I'll take him to the doctor myself," Peter growled, not liking the insinuation he couldn't take care of his dependent. She might let hers traipse around doing whatever they pleased, but Stiles was in his hands and by them he would florish. Without her help.

"I wasn't trying to imply anything, Peter," she said in a manner much more stern than before. "Do let me know when his condition improves, I'd like to meet my new packmate." He's not your packmate, he's my packmate. Peter didn't voice the thought, he wasn't looking forward to the argument.

"Goodbye, Talia."

"Goodbye, P-" there was a soft click as the call was disconnected.

"Who was that?" Stiles asked, without any of his usual over exuberance. He was uncharacteristically solemn as he leaned against the wall, water bottle still grasped in hand.

"My alpha," Peter said, rubbing his temples in an effort to self-soothe. "An insufferable woman."

"Will I ever get to meet your alpha?" Stiles unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and gulped down a few mouthfuls before replacing it in the fridge.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Peter grumbled. "At least not until the holidays. I don't like her coming over here and getting her scent on all of my things." Just the thought of it made him glower. It was unrealistic he could keep Stiles away from Talia forever, but he would do so as long a he could get away with.

"Am I one of your things?" There was a hidden question, underneath the stated one. Peter didn't like those kinds of questions. Not unless he was the one asking them, so he answered only to the one that was verablized.

"Obviously," he scoffed, poking Stiles between the eyes with a small smile. "You smell enough of me." He expected some sort of clever retort from his human housemate, but he didn't get one. Stiles looked displeased by the answer he'd been given and left the room without so much as an offensive hand gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is accidentally injured in this chapter. The person harming him does not do it on purpose. Once again, comments make me happy.
> 
> Also I made a tumblr, yay! I have no idea how to use it though, so . . . yay?


	6. Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is a brat, and Peter has his own methods of dealing with things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the past however long reuploading this fic, and everything should be back the way it was before. Very sorry for the inconvenience T.T
> 
> See end of notes for chapter warnings.

_  
Ennis liked showing off. He was proud and strong and adored an audience, willing or not. Stiles sat perched on the sofa while Ennis destroyed his furniture – mostly chairs - applauding enthusiastically to avoid turning into one of the mangled appliances on the floor._

_His heart sputtered when Ennis turned his sights from chair legs to the television. God save the TV._

_“Hey, hey I have an idea! Lets go outside. Can you snap a tree, En?” Ennis laughed at the question._

_“Of course,” he said proudly, chin upturned, and then more seriously, “but, your owner doesn’t want you going outside. You could get sick.” Stiles frowned._

_“Please? C’mon, I’m never gonna meet another wolf as strong as you; and besides, how can I get sick when I have such a big, tough, alpha werewolf to protect me?” He was reaching and Ennis knew it, but he was a sucker for flattery._

_“I don’t think brute force can protect against the flu, little one,” his words were stern but his eyes were playful, having developed an unlikely affection for the human._

_“Pleeeeease, Ennis?” Stiles folded his hands together and widdened his eyes, giving him the best 'helpless, vulnerable, human,' look he could muster. Ennis grunted._

_“Fine,” Stiles broke into a grin, “but this stays between us. You don’t even mention it to your owner.”_

_“Uh, duh, of course! Can we drive somewhere?” In for an inch, in for a mile. “Ya know, somewhere that's not-” he waved his arms in front of the windows “-permanently in my line of sight?” Ennis thought for a second._

_“I have a better idea,” he gave a wicked grin._

_Running through the forest on the back of a gigantic werewolf was terrifying, and exciting all at once. Stiles had his face pressed into the side of Ennis's throat, shielding him from the wind that whipped past them._

_After what felt like a thousand miles Ennis came to a stop and allowed Stiles to scramble back down onto his feet. He shook his head as he dizzily stumbled around the mossy forest floor. The sky swam in different directions and the trees came in and out of focus, but he was smiling, and he was happy._

_“Oh god,” he groaned as the dirt rose up to meet him. Ennis caught him before he could fall over and supported him by the elbow while he regained his balance. “I feel like the girl from Twilight.”_

_“I haven't seen that film,” the world around him stopped spinning and Ennis came into focus. He was frowning at the offset human. “You aren't sick, aren't you?”_

_“No,” Stiles shook his head, legs stiffening. “I feel okay, just dizzy; and don't see Twilight. You probably wouldn't like it.”_

_“Alright,” Ennis agreed, stepping back to let Stiles stand on his own now that he wasn't swaying from side-to-side. “You want to see me smash that tree?” Ennis crouched down so he and Stiles were at eye-level. Stiles nodded so quickly he worried his head might fall off._

_“Yes, yes!” In truth, he hardly cared about the wanton destruction of the forest, but he liked being outside, and he liked being outside with company._

_“Alright,” Ennis patted him. “Stand over there, so you don't get hurt.” Stiles nodded and spent the rest of the day watching Ennis aggressively uproot, punch, kick, and tear trees until they were reduced to splinters, when those had been cleared he moved onto the boulders. Stiles watched with fascination as he held a rock between his hands and squeezed it into an explosion of fragments. Stiles clapped and Ennis bowed._

_“Do it again, do it again!” he encouraged._

_Ennis looked around, and then shrugged. “I don't have any more rocks,”he said as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tattered jeans._

_“Oh,” Stiles said, a little disappointed. Ennis winked at him._

_“That just means we have to go find more, a bigger one, hm? C'mon, jump up on my back again.” He didn't need to be told twice as he clambered back up onto the giants back. He dug his nails into Ennis's well-toned shoulder muscles._

_Stiles and Ennis spent the rest of the day tromping through the woods, destroying everything Ennis set his eyes upon. Despite the cold and the dizziness, it was one of his favorite memories._

\----  
Peter followed his sullen pet into the living room, where he made a rather unelegant face-plant onto the sofa. He rolled over onto his back and starred listlessly at the licencing with an uncharacteristic stillness. There were no spastic movements or rapid-fire questions, not even an accusatory hum.

"Someone's in a grumpy mood today. Why is that?" Peter hovered over him, watching the whiskey eyes flit from the wall to his, and back again. Stiles sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head.

"Just coming to terms with the cruel hands of fate, is all," he drawled, pulling his arms back and folding his hands across his belly. Peter nodded understandingly, his smile one of facetious sympathy.

"I can see how that might be upsetting. Anything specific that's making you so despondent?"

"Primarily? I am a cat," he announced with confidence. "A fluffy, white, cat."

Peter blinked. "Pardon?"

"I am a fluffy white cat. I'm always going to be a fluffy white cat, and there's nothing I can do about it." His voice remained somber, as somber as one could be when making such a declaration.

"I see, and what led you to that conclusion? You don't have ears, or a tail, you're certainly not a were."

"Oh, oh, I am very much aware, life,-" he bitterly responded, furrowing his brows, "-has decided for me that I am a cat. The kind that sits on the laps of supervillians and purrs while the world is destroyed around them." Peter studied him for a moment, sniffing the air. He didn't smell sick, and he felt no fever when he lay his hand down against Stiles forehead. The boy complacently accepted the physical contact, which was more concerning than his new found felinity.

"Well, I suppose if that's what makes you happy?" he said as he withdrew his hand. "It is a shame though, I just told my sister you were a human. Now she's going to think I'm a liar." The unfortunate caretaker sighed, moving his hand to run through Stiles short, brown hairs. The human allowed himself to be pet, another concerning sign.

Stiles scoffed. "I bet she already does. You're kind of just awful, you know that? I heard you tell her I was sick- that's one lie in just one conversation. You are a lying liar, who lies, about lying." Well at least there was some fight left in him. Things would be boring if Stiles melted into a regular house pet.

"Now, Stiles, that's just plain hurtful." Peter put a hand over his chest in a mocking gesture of offense. "After all I've done for you? Is this because I don't rub your belly?" Stiles let out an adorably meek squeak when the hand brushed his stomach. His eyes widened in shock. He flailed for just a second, knocking Peters hand away and rolled over onto his stomach. He tucked his arms and legs underneath himself like an armadillo. Even with his face pressed into the cushion Peter could see the delightful tinge of pink spreading across his cheeks and up into his ears.

"Ooooh, someone's sensitive," he teased, grazing his fingers up his hip to the top of his ribs. The boy growled and batted Peters wandering hands, keeping his more vulnerable bits wrapped up with his left arm.

"That's dogs, jackass," he managed to still sound indignant, maybe he was part cat.

"I'm just trying to accommodate your needs, Stiles. Should I scratch behind your ears instead?" Peter grinned devilishly as he traced over the shell of Stiles ear.

"No!" Stiles arms left his stomach to wrap around the top of his head, a grievous mistake. "Stop it!" he warned, hunching up his shoulders to cover his neck.

"If you insist," Peter purred.

The boy yelped as he was lifted and tossed onto his back, kicking like an upended turtle. Before he could wiggle away Peter seized both of his wrists in one hand, holding them prisoner against his chest. Stiles squirmed and kicked in a futile bid for freedom. Peter deftly jumped over the sofa to pin the boys legs down with his own, which was almost disappointingly easy.

"Let me go, asshole!" Stiles glare held the power and intensity to frighten a lesser man, but Peter was no lesser man. He returned the vicious look with a smile, equally as menacing.

"But, you're so upset. What kind of owner would I be if I let you sit around here moping all day?" He stilled the boys movements by placing a deft hand over stiles left hip, causing his face to redden. He furrowed his brow in confusion as Stiles physical demeanor became one of embarrassment, and yet his smell remained constant and unperturbed.

It might have been pure narcissism but Peter doubted there were many men out there who could get this close to him without having some sort of physical reaction. Remembering the incident in the book store he wondered if Stiles was asexual.

"A considerate one!" The humans protests interrupted his thoughts. Peter shook his head.

"No, no, no, my dear pet. It's my job to ensure all of your needs are taken care of." His hand slid from Stiles hip up to his chest, causing something between a squeal and a yelp to rip from the humans throat. His skin was warm and soft underneath his shirt. Peter wasn't about to molest the human, but he wanted to know if his suspicions were correct.

"Are you going to quite brooding?"

"No," his feisty captive responded, turning his head away. "You don't know what it's-"

"Then I'll just have to do everything in my power to make you happy again." Whatever embarrassment he had been feeling drained away along with the color in his cheeks.

"No, no, nononnono!" Stiles cried as Peter ghosted his fingers over the center of his belly. He gasped and arched his back, a ripple of sharp giggles bursting forth. "P-Peter!" he whined. "A-ahahah, st-top it!" he giggled out, unable to prevent the mirthful laughs. His attempts at speech thereafter were failures. Peter continued to dig his finger tips up and down Stiles sides, ignoring his twitching and hatefully wordless looks.

"Fuck you!" Stiles shouted, near breathless when at last the tickle torture came to an end. Peter chuckled, unrepentant for his crime.

"Are you happy, yet?"

"No! This is human abus- ah!" Why Stiles constantly chose to test his luck with werewolves Peter would never know, but with fingers digging into his sides and under his arms there was no time to ruminate on the subject.

"Better?" Stiles gulped down generous amounts of air while Peter awaited his dilatory response.

"Fine," Stiles conceded breathily. His head dropped down onto the armrest. "I t-think you collapsed my lungs, but fine." Peter released his wrists.

"You don't sound fine. You still sound angry. I can't in good consciousness have my pet angry about something. I'd be-"

"You'd be less of an asshole," Stiles snapped. He may have been an asshole, but at least the kid wasn't pouting anymore. Peter tried not to grin at the return of his spunky charge. He raised his hands again as a threat.

"Okay! Jeez," Stiles clutched his sides defensively, determined to keep the very sensitive skin unharmed. "I am happy. Very happy. Like so happy right now." Peter smiled at him.

"I'm so glad to hear that, Stiles. Now what would you like for dinner?"

"Kibbles and Bits," the boy said, melting against the back of the sofa, out of apparent danger. His face burned brightly, chest heaving in exhausted frustration.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter cooed, lovingly patting his cheek. His barely suppressed rage was cute. "If I were going to feed you cat food I'd at least get you Blue Buffalo, or Royal Canin. I wouldn't make you eat generic."

"It's good to know you care," as if his face couldn't get any redder.

"Hmm," Peter rubbed over the stubble on his chin in thought.

"Not sure I have any cat food lying around. I might have some salmon in the freezer. I'll see what I can do to accommodate." Stiles made a noncommittal noise, and with that Peter pushed off of the couch and walked away, leaving Stiles to ponder what had just happened.

\--

Stiles slumped down into his usual chair at the dinner table. The scent of freshly cooked fish proved too tempting for him, even after having his stomach and lungs tortured. He was fairly certain tickling had been outlawed in the Geneva Convention. If it weren't he'd be writing a very strongly worded letter to the U.N.

He had a very sensitive stomach, the kind of sensitive that led to poor decision-making and less blood available for his brain. It had taken most of his energy to dilute his scent of apprehensive arousal while getting his belly rubbed, and the consecutive tickle sessions following tested his willpower to the absolute max. At least Peters legs had been on either side of his own, and not in between, else he might have made a surprising discovery.

It's not Peter, he told himself desperately. It's just that there's no girls around, and we share a bed, and he's the only person to touch me in like years. I am not sexually attracted to the guy who made me fall off a roof. Technically he'd caused himself to fall off a roof, but that was all semantics.

"If it isn't my lovely feline," Peter said when he turned and saw him sitting patiently at the table. His hair was playfully ruffled.

"Oh, so you're fine with me being a cat, just not a grumpy cat," he grumbled, just lightly enough to avoid another 'cheering' session. He crossed his arms over the table and laid his head down on top of them.

"So long as you're happy you can be whatever creature you choose to be," Peter said with a smile, placing a hot plate of cut-up salmon in front of him.

"I didn't choose-"

"Sorry, whatever creature life chooses you be,” he waved his hand dismissively, sitting down across from Stiles. The human unfolded his arms and poked at the fish on his plate. “No cat food I'm afraid, but plenty of fish.”

“I don't even like fish,” he whined. “It's alright, I guess, but I prefer chicken. Not that I'll ever get the choice,” he rolled his eyes, forking a piece and popping it into his mouth. Peter gave him a look.

“I remember, very clearly, asking what you wanted for supper. You said 'cat food.' If you want I can go to the store tomorrow and buy you some.” Stiles was hardly placated, picking at the slivers of flesh on his plate. “You can stop eating the fish at anytime.”

"If I could just 'stop eating the fish' I would love to just 'stop eating the fish;' I'm going to live my whole life eating fish." His discontent was palpable as he popped another piece of perfectly seasoned salmon into his mouth. His fishy fate might not be so bad if it always tasted as good as Peters. Not that he needed to know that.

"Are you quite finished?" Peter asked, his head resting on his hand. Stiles pursed his lips to indicate that he was.

"I don't know what this little 'emotional crisis' of yours is about, but I suggest you take a good, hard, look around, and realize the only person making you miserable is you. I'm not forcing you to do anything, and, as we're the only two people living here, I can assure nobody else is either." He didn't sound angry, just fed up. Stiles shoved the salmon away from him and dropped his head down onto the table. He winced a little when he impacted the surface.

Peter gave a long-suffering sigh. “Tell me, Stiles, did Deucalion put up with you when you were like this?”

"No," Stiles scoffed. "Either he wasn't there, or he'd tell me to meditate on it. When that didn't work it was 'did you take your medicine today, Stiles?'" he lifted his head to peak out from behind his arms.

"That sounds like him. He's pretentious.”

"Oh yeah, you should hear his speech on equality. Very hipster meets communist Russia, meets cult leader," he twiddled his fork between his fingers as he spoke, waving it around. Peter chuckled.

“How do you know him?” he asked cautiously. He wondered about their relationship from day one, but it never seemed the right time to ask. Peter was obviously not a fan of his former owner, but they were on good enough terms that he'd willingly accepted his pet into his home. Likewise, Deucalion never mentioned Peter, or if he had never at length.

"I suppose you could say we're. . .” Peters eyes shifted to the left in thought, “coworkers. He brings me things, I sell those things."

"Why can't he just do that himself?" Stiles frowned. He didn't know where Deucalions money came from. Anytime he would ask, he recieved a very condescending pat on the head, and an order to 'just not worry about it.'

For a while he surmised it was donated by all those wealthy wolves they'd visit in foreign countries. Deucalion had a way about him of convincing others to do what he wanted, evidenced by how easily he earned the loyalty of other alphas. Stiles was one of the few who weren't effected by his smooth words and charming smile, his talks of vision, and peace. Neither, apparently, was Peter.

"Deucalion has other talents," Peter said with a sip from his glass. "He can't make things disappear as well as I can.” He winked at Stiles, who was coming more and more out of his slump with every passing word. He was curious now, and not many things could abate his curiosity once piqued, other than complete and utter satisfaction.

"You're not trying to make me disappear, are you?" he asked. It wasn't an impossible idea. Maybe Deuc didn't like the idea of a spark running around freely, maybe Peter already knew about the incident and was there to ensure it never happened again. It would have been a chilling revelation, but one in a long-line of terrible events.

Peter nearly choked on his drink. "Good god, no, where in the world did you get that idea?"

"Well, you said Deucalion found you things, and you made them disappear. I was given to you by Deucalion." Connections were beginning to form in his mind, he furrowed his brows a little, suspiciously. He wondered if he'd let himself get too comfortable too soon.

Peter looked back at him. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the table. His blue eyes were not as defensive as Stiles expected. “I honestly don't know why he gave you to me. He sent a message asking if I'd consider adopting you, and a week later he showed up on my doorstep with you drugged out of your mind, and all the paper work to sign over ownership. All he said was that he didn't have the time to care for you anymore.” In a move too swift for Stiles to prevent Peter reached out and poked him between the eyes. “I thought maybe it had something to do with all the screaming and crying you've been doing.”

Stiles grimaced at the reminder. He took a sip of his drink to avoid responding just a little while longer. As he set the glass down, he said “I don't want to talk about that. I've gotten better, ya know.”

"You have," Peter smiled at him, his genuine smile that so often got lost behind a sea of sarcasm. "You're doing much better." The compliment made Stiles turn his face away.

"I think I might be ready to start sleeping on my own now," he said it quietly, knuckles tightening around the fork. He didn't like to talk about his sleep issues, it was painful, and left him feeling vulnerable in ways nothing else could.

He really wasn't sure if he could sleep through the night without Peter close by to calm him, but-

 

"No." Peter didn't hesitate, picking a slice of neglected salmon off Stiles plate.

"What? why not?" Stiles head shot up, ready to argue. He already had a few choice words posed on the end of his tongue.

"Because, I have some very important meetings coming up in the next few days, and it's important that I actually sleep before them. If you want to try sleeping in your own bed, fine, but now isn't the time. You can try it next week if you're still feeling confident."

"That's not fair. You can't just tell me when to-"

"I thought you said you didn't get choices in life? Your own words were 'but I won't ever get a choice,' remember, kitten?"

"That's not what I meant! Don't use my own words against me!" he jabbed his fork in Peters direction pointedly. Peter raised a brow.

"You're making sour faces again, Stiles. Does that mean you aren't happy? Maybe I should-" with a frustrated groan Stiles stood up from the table, making his escape before Peter could start another round of tickle torture. As he ascended the stairs he heard Peter laugh.

When the time finally came for him to retreat back into Peters room he found himself pausing outside the door. He could easily just walk back into his room, ignore Peter, try it anyways, but . . . a part of him didn't like that idea, and not just because Peter would more than likely drag him off anyways. His stomach knotted at the thought of a big, cold, empty bed, waking up alone and disoriented.

After a second he pushed open the door, following the tiny sliver of light inside the otherwise darkened room. His feet pattered against the floor, and the weight of the bed shifted underneath him. Peter rolled over so they were facing each other, Stiles promptly shuffled as close as he could get without touching. He reveled in the warmth the older were produced under the covers, resting his head onto the cooled pillow.

"Goodnight, kitten," Peter teased in a petulant way.

"Shuttup," Stiles murmured back in a half-asleep stupor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets tickled, frequently. Ennis and Stiles are fun to write about.


	7. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter leaves the house to go on an errand without telling Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for chapter specific warnings.

The house smelled like a massacre took place. Hate, anxiety, tension, fear, pain, sadness; it was a cocktail of grief and misery and it was all coming from the human boy, glaring at him from the sofa. His knees were hugged to his chest, concealing his mouth and nose, but leaving his anxious and angry eyes visible underneath a mess of brown hair. It took him less then a minute to find the boy curled up in the library, but that minute had felt unnaturally long as every terrible thing that could have happened to Stiles flashed through Peters mind. It was irrational, but then again, everything about Stiles was irrational. One minute he'd be whining and whimpering and clinging, and the next he'd be demanding more independence. 

“There you are,” Peters claws sheathed when he found him again. The scent he exuded drew out his primal need to protect and defend, but knowing Stiles was safe put that need at ease.

“Where were you?” the boy asked. He lifted his head and scowled.

“I went to the store to buy groceries. I didn't think you'd care so much.” Peter shrugged. If he'd had an anxiety attack – which he almost certainly had – he was down from it now. 

“Where did you _really_ go?” Peter reached out a hand to touch him, and the boy scooted back in his seat. Peter frowned. 

“To the store. To buy eggs. I got you pop rocks and mountain dew, that's what teenagers these days like, right?” Stiles ignored him. Rather than stay and argue Peter decided to go back to his forgotten groceries, hoping nothing had spilled or spoilt while he'd been searching for the human. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” He heard Stiles stand up and follow him down the staircase.

“Because I was _just_ going to the store, Stiles. You were sleeping, and I didn't want to wake you up. Does that make sense to you?” He'd gotten use to the fact that Stiles mind made strange connections, but that didn't make it any less frustrating to deal with. 

“Oh, oh sure. You were 'just going to the store,'” Peter turned around in time to catch the end of his sarcastic air quotes. He gestured towards the grocery bags on the table, but still the human ignored logic. “And tomorrow, I'll wake up on a boat, or a plane, or a train to wherever the fuck, and you'll be 'just too busy' to say bye, is that right?” he snapped. 

Peter took a shuddering breath and rubbed his temples. “ _Or,_ tomorrow you'll wake up and _have breakfast_. Seriously, what's gotten in to you today?” He kept his eyes carefully off Stiles face and over his shoulder. 

“Whats gotten in to _me_? Whats gotten into _you_? I'm not stupid Peter, I know you were talking to someone.” Stiles stubbornly stomped his foot on the ground like teenager. Oh right, he was a teenager. 

“Okay fine, you got me. I was talking to someone.” Stiles heart sputtered. “Her name is Kathy and she's _a cashier at the grocery store_ ,” he snapped. “You're acting crazy right now, you know that?” He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, fixing Stiles with an equal glare. 

“Don't treat me like I'm crazy! You're the one sneaking out of the house for no goddamn reason! I know you're lying, _Peter_!” His heart never skipped, he believed wholeheartedly that what he said was the truth. 

"Well that's very hard to do when _you're acting crazy_! I didn't do anything wrong, _Stiles_." His claws unsheathed subconsciously in a spurt of anger. He was used to being accused of things he hadn't done, and even a great many he had, but this . . .

"You're trying to get rid of me!" the boy jabbed a finger in his direction. 

". . . What?" Stiles stood firmly in place, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. 

"You left to try and pawn me off on someone else! Admit it." His eyes burned with a deadly look. Peter could feel anger and hate wafting off him like steam. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened and if he hadn't been so angry Peter might have worried he'd hurt himself. 

"Why the hell would you think _that_?" Peter took a step forward, Stiles shuffled back. 

"You _left_ and you didn't tell me where you went. You're not the first person to try sneaking out on me, you know," his voice cracked. His gaze left Peters face to stare out the window. They started shining with the wet threat of tears. "Who did you talk to? Did you call Deuc? He doesn't want me."

Peter took a deep breath. "Like I told you before-" 

"Stop _lying_ , Peter. If you were going to the store you would have told me," the tears spilled out. He wiped his salty eyes on his sleeve. Peter turned his nose away. 

"I don't know how many times I have to explain this to you- I. Went. To. The. Store." 

"No, you didn't." Peter put his hand on his head, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He couldn't think rationally when he was angry. He'd say something he didn't mean, and Stiles being Stiles would take it at face value. Yelling at him now would do nothing to fix the shattered peices of Stiles psyche. His eyes flashed yellow, he couldn't help it. 

"Okay," he said through gritted teeth. "How about next time I go somewhere, I leave you a note? Would that make you feel better?" 

"No! Because you'd just be lying." His shoulders sagged with exasperation from their one-way conversation. They were just going in circles. 

"Well, then, I don't know what you want from me, Stiles." With great dififculty he kept himself from yelling again. He wanted to end the conversation, he wanted to leave, but Stiles was standing in front of the door. 

"I want you to not pawn me off on some stranger!" 

"Well fantastic because I haven't done that!" His voice was rising again and his eyes were still flashing yellow, he could feel his were blood burning hotly underneath his skin, 

"You're such a-" 

" _Stiles!_ " Peter snarled. "Either leave this room, or get away from the door, because I _can't_ be around you right now. You're just arguing the same point over and over again!" Stiles huffed, turning his head away. For a split second Peter worried he might have to force his way past him. Then slowly, Stiles stepped away. 

"Thank you," he snapped, brushing past the boy and throwing open the door. It slammed shut behind him with a bang. He let his emotions overtake him as his claws unsheathed and he hit the ground running. 

Several hours passed, and one deer hunted and consumed before Peter felt calm enough to return home. He walked through the door and sniffed. The smell of pain and anger had subsided, but an unhealthy aroma of sadness coated the furniture and up the stairs. Peter sighed and ran his hand through his hair. The bags were still on the counter. 

He brewed a coffee to give himself time to think. He could only guess where the rapid accusation had come from. 

He found Stiles leaning against the window in the library, tablet discarded on the table. His arms were wrapped around his legs, his eyes cast out over the lawn. He wasn't crying anymore, but they were still puffy. 

Peter pulled a chair over and sat down next to him. The boy tensed up and pursed his lips. 

"Are you out of your malaise, yet?" he asked in a soft tone, holding out the cup of coffee. Stiles ignored him. Peter set it down by his feet instead. After another minute of silence he responded.

"You're . . . not trying to get rid of me?" he said it meekly, eyes still cast towards the window. 

"No," Peter said with a sigh. He sat down on the bench, forcing Stiles to scoot over, and put one arm around the distressed human. 

". . . I don't believe you." Peter took one of Stiles hands, gently prying it away from his chest. His fingers were warm and soft. He positioned it over his heart. 

"Stiles, Whatever-your-last-name-is, I am not trying to get rid of you," Stiles blinked away the few remaining tears, feeling Peters heart beat steadily in his chest. "See? No jumps. Do you believe me now?" 

". . . Okay," he said with a nod, pulling his hand back slowly. His posture relaxed bit-by-bit, until he looked less like a tightly coiled spring. 

"Here, I brought you a coffee. Peace offering?" Stiles gave him a flickering smile. 

"Thank you." Peter ruffled his hair, and stood. 

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make a call - and no, it isn't to rehome you." Stiles closed his mouth. 

\---

Peter tried calling the number four times before anyone picked up. "Deucalion," he hissed into the phone. 

"Peter," the alpha answered lightly. "How are you?" 

"You're not going to ask me about your former pet, the one you claimed to love and cherish?" 

"I sense theres an accusation in there somewhere," Deuc said, his tone hardening immediately. 

"Oh, yes," Peter flicked out his claws. "I was wondering if you could explain to me why I've been up every night listening to him wail? Or why he gets a panic attack every time I leave the house?" Deuc sighed. 

"If you're asking me to take him back-"

"I don't want you to take him back, I want you to _talk to him_." There was silence on the other end. 

". . . I really don't think that's a good idea. He's acclimat-"

"For gods sake he's not a _hamster_ Deuc, he's an eighteen year old kid, wondering why he was abandoned without a goodbye." 

"Stiles is nineteen."

"Oh good, so you at least know _something_ about him," Peter snapped. "He freaked out on me today because I left to go to the store without telling him."

"He's just being dramatic. He's a teenager, they-" 

"Normal teenagers don't wake up screaming at night." 

"He wouldn't be doing that if you were giving him his medication. It's _good_ for him," the pen Peter held snapped between his fingers, ink spilled out over them. He growled. 

"Those medications treat the symptoms, not the illness. He's unstable, and he needs closure. He needs to know why you left him."

"Goodbye, Peter." Deucalions tone was ice as he hung up the phone. Peter slammed it down on the desk with enough force crack the wood. The ink from the pen splattered onto his white shirt, but he ignored it and rested his head down onto the splintered desk. 

\--- 

"What's this?" Stiles asked, looking at the shiny object in his hand. 

"It's a cellphone, now, instead of freaking out and making accusations, you can just _call me_ when you want to know where I am." Stiles poked at the screen a few times, unlocking it and sliding back and forth between the home and call screen. 

“I can use this? So when you aren't here-?” he looked up at Peter with suspicious and bewildered eyes. 

“You can call me. No need to destroy the house or anything. I already programmed my num- oof! Stiles!” the full weight of the human slammed into his chest in an overwhelming hug. Peter winced and wrapped his arms around the boys waist. 

“I love it, thank you,” he mumbled quietly as he hugged Peter. 

“Don't mention it,” he grumbled, but his heart warmed a little at providing for his human. He decided not to tell Stiles about his conversation with Deucalion; as far as he was concerned Deucalion no longer existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a full-fledged panic attack and gets angry at Peter. Peter and Stiles argue.


	8. Accurst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets an unwanted visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was unusually short, so I added more Stiles and Ennis at the bottom. Also, because its so short the next one will be up much sooner than usual.

Stiles had a very rough few days, and things were not about to get any better. His lack of 'alone time' was causing him a significant amount of stress, and Peters tickle torture only made his internal fire burn brighter. He kept telling himself it had nothing to do with Peters very attractive face, or his muscled chest, or the way his warm hands felt nice as they pressed against his- Stiles cut off the daydream before it began, squeezing his eyes shut tighter and pressing his face into the pillow. 

It didn't help that said attractive werewolf owner had his arm wrapped around his waist, and was breathing hotly on the back of his neck. His spark was getting quite the work out struggling to cover the pungent aroma of heated teenage boy. 

Things might be okay if he had been able to sleep in his own bed, behind a locked door, several rooms away. Nothing could ever be okay for him. 

He still couldn't stomach being alone in his room at night without Peter. When he tried the dark windows outside seemed to leer at him, he lost focus, and every sound of the old house settling brought visions of monsters and demons wanting to spirit him away. He'd never had this much anxiety settling into a new home before- then again none of his past owners ever tried cuddling him. 

The cursed vibration of a cell phone ring broke his concentration. Behind him the bed shifted and the arm slid out from under his waist, leaving him wishing for the return of warmth. Peter moved into a sitting position and let out a frustrated sigh. 

Stiles stayed limp, even as Peters hand lingered on his hip just a second too long. 

"Dammit!" Peter cursed. The sudden expletive caused Stiles to jump, ruining his facade of sleep. He flipped over onto his right side, knowing it would be futile to try and feign otherwise. 

Peter was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while the other tapped impatiently at his cellphone screen. Stiles own rested next to Peters, plugged into the charger. He'd used it twice to message him, sheerly out of boredom, but other than that it remained unused. Before it his tablet was the closest thing he had to outside communication, but he was wary of trying to get in contact with other humans outside of the 'pet' system. More likely than not those who claimed to be were just wolves waiting for a stupid kid to reveal their location so they could be snatched. Being taken away from one home had been painful enough, he wouldn't let it happen a second time. 

"Whats wrong?" Stiles asked in a groggy tone, rubbing at his eyelids. 

"Go get dressed," Peter commanded, not sparing a glance. His eyes fixated on the cellphone screen. 

"Why?" Stiles asked, sitting up and crossing his arms. 

"Because I said so," Peter snapped. "Get dressed, take a shower, use the bathroom, do whatever you normally do in the morning but do it _now_!" He might have stayed and argued, but the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes made Stiles feel that any resistance would just mean Peter would strip and cloth him himself. Much as he liked being touched in that capacity, Peters eyes were already flashing yellow and he imagined it was less pleasant with a fully wolfed out partner- at least without consent and safe words. 

Stiles trudged back to his room, picking through his clothes until he found some jeans and a T-shirt. It was on his second week with Peter that he finally took them out of their box and into his closet, once he was certain Deucalion wouldn't return to cart him off again. 

He didn't have to wonder long as a few minutes later Peter was in his doorway, shirtless, with a towel hung around his neck. He was squeezing water out of his hair, a sour grimace on his face.

"You're gaze is appreciated, but I really need you to get up and come over here, _now_." 

Stiles snapped his eyes back up towards Peters face, opening his mouth in a poor attempt at making excuses. Peter rolled his eyes. "Up!" He grabbed the human by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of the bed, shoving him roughly towards the door. He wasn't given much of a choice as Peters had closed around his arm and dragged him into the hallway. 

"Whoa! Wait. What's going on?" his mind flashed with possibilities, the most troubling that he was about to be shoved into a car and spirited off. 

"Those very important clients of mine decided to drop by earlier than expected, and I'd rather have you kenneled while they're here." Peters voice was less gruff then it had been, calming his worries to an extent. 

"Wait. What?" He dug his heels into the ground, which was rather ineffectual when his captor had the strength to tear him to pieces like paper. He was pulled along the hall and up the stairs towards a door unfamiliar to him. Peter opened it, and firmly shoved the human inside, slamming it shut behind him. He heard the sound of a lock clicking into place. Above him a yellow light flickered to life, dispelling the darkness that surrounded him. 

"Peter!" Stiles shouted again, whirling around to face the door. "Let me out of here!" he kicked at it to emphasis his displeasure with the situation, resulting only in a wince as he bruised his toes. "I'm going to suffocate or get pneumonia or something!" 

"You'll be fine, kitten. I'll come let you out in an hour or so. Take a nap or something." The affectionate nickname did not help the situation. 

"I'm going to piss on all your shit!" he threatened as a last resort. It did not have any effect. 

"Next time I'll leave you with a litter box," Peter sneered as his footsteps grew quieter. 

"Peter! I'm going to have a panic attack," he whined. He didn't like being confined to one spot. 

"If I smell you getting upset I'll come let you out," his tone was much more gentle now. "I'm confident you can contain yourself for an hour. Besides, you have your phone and your tablet in there with you. You'll be okay." Then the footsteps disappeared down the stairs.

His 'kennel' as it turned out was actually just a large storage closet, with several old boxes up top and some worn winter coats hanging in the corner. It was a much more acceptable environment than the term 'kennel' implied, but he preferred the warm library and it's many books to the dust that clung to the corners of the small space.

Stiles thought of all the vindictive things he could do in the closet to get back at Peter for locking him away, but short of tearing to shreds all the fancy looking coats he probably didn't care about, Stiles came up empty. He wasn't actually going to piss on anything because much as he would love the satisfaction of having ruined the perfectly polished hardwood floors, he would also have to sit there and smell his own urine for however long it took Peter to come back for him. 

And then a better idea came to mind, something better and less trivial than merely destruction of personal property. 

Stiles would escape his wooden prison. A grin equivalent to that of the Cheshire cat's appeared on his face, maddeningly happy, for he possessed certain abilities that evaded that of a regular house pet. Those abilities included opening doors from the inside. A talent he had practiced extensively while in his previous owners care. 

He pressed his palms against the door and closed his eyes. It took a second, but he found his spark flickering away in the recess of his mind. He pulled at it, fed it, allowed it to grow larger and stronger burning bright behind his eyelids. When he opened his eyes at last he felt the power from his spark coursing down his arms, making his hairs stand on end. He focused all of the unbridled energy on the door lock, letting himself feel for it. It did not take him as long as he'd thought it would to figure out the locking mechanism and just how to push it into place. The door unlatched with a 'click' and Stiles was free. 

\----

_Between the ages of sixteen and nineteen Stiles began to believe he would die a long, and painful death; but it would not be from illness as the wolves suspected - but from Ennis's _constant_ petting. Every time the werewolf came to visit he'd scoop Stiles up into a big and unnecessary bear hug. _

_"You ever have a rabbit before, Ennis?" Stiles asked from where he was imprisoned between his arms. If he had it must not have been for very long. He wept for any small, easily broken creature unfortunate enough to be left in the brutes care for too long. At least he could voice his discomfort when the hold went from 'firm' to 'bone-crushing.' The were dropped him back on his feet before answering._

_"A few times, but they aren't good prey." Stiles heart sank again. "Not enough meat, too much bone and fur. My wolf does not like the way their ears get caught in his teeth. But at least they're cheap, you can buy a whole lot of them down at the pet store.” Ennis laughed at the look of absolute horror that crossed Stiles face._

_“I wouldn't actually eat a pet store rabbit, Stiles,” he grinned. “There's no honor in killing something you didn't catch yourself.” Stiles shoulders sagged in relief._

_“One of these days I'll think you're serious," he warned, wagging his finger in Ennis's face. Ennis made a pretend grab for it, and Stiles skipped back._

_"One of these day, I might be." The wolf winked at him. "I will always admire a valiant hunt, but rabbits," Ennis shrugged, "no interest. Would make good prey for a human, though; easier to catch, easier to kill. Do you want to learn how to hunt rabbits, Stiles?” The humans grin widdened at the eagerness in Ennis's voice._

_"No, no no, no thanks. I'm not so good at the whole 'hunting' thing," he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck._

_"Maybe if you ate more meat, you would be less scrawny, hm?" The comment was followed by a bruising but well-intentioned pat on the back._

_"Ow!" Stiles yelped, glaring at his brutish babysitter. "Soft hands when handling Stiles, remember?"_

_"Sorry," Ennis patted him again more gently than the first time. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to learn? It's good exercise, and a useful skill.”_

_“Uh, maybe some other time? Okay? Can't we just watch a movie instead?” he pleaded. Going outside was always nice, but going outside with the express purpose of _killing something_ was less ideal. _

_“If you insist,” Ennis shrugged. “But I want to pick.”_

_When Deucalion returned from his trip two weeks later he handed Stiles a syran-wrapped package of pink and fat._

_“Ennis told me to give this to you? He was very insistent that you wanted it.” With a grimace Stiles recognized it as the raw meat of a very unfortunate rabbit._


	9. Anosmic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has guests and Stiles has oppositional defiance.

Stiles grinned victoriously as the door swung open. He was free. He had been free before but now he was free _again_ , and he had done it all by himself. He even allowed himself a small victory dance. 

But now was the question of what to do with his freedom. He could go to the library, but Peter might be conducting his 'business meeting' in there, or he could go to his own room but that wasn't much better than staying trapped in the closet. 

Never one to learn from his mistakes, the outdoors seemed a pleasant way to spend his Peter-free day. He fueled his spark to cover his scent and keep him undiscovered. He wasn't about to try jumping off the roof again, not after last time. The last thing he needed was for Peter to 'rescue' him with the added bonus of company. 

He was at the disadvantage of not being able to scent other peoples whereabouts, and even his spark couldn't fix that. If it could he was unaware how to. He walked quietly towards the end of the hallway, peaking his head out to look downstairs. Peters voice traveled up from the landing. 

"-to see you again too." 

An unfamiliar female answered. 

"Yes," she purred in a silken tone that was downright sexual. Stiles brow furrowed. "Sorry to bother you on such short notice, but I absolutely _need_ these ingredients for my spell or it won't come out right." She hung on the word 'need' in an unattractive way that made Stiles gag. 

"Well, then you came to the right place, but I wish you would have called sooner instead of just showing up," if her seduction tactics were working Peters voice gave no indication of it. He sounded annoyed.

Stiles had to duck his head back behind the railing as the two walked past. The woman wore a blood-red jacket and leggings. Her blonde hair draped down her back like a golden shawl. Stiles did not like her. He only saw them for a fraction of a second as they passed by, neither looking up the staircase to spot the eavesdropper. Peter had at least had enough time to put on a shirt. Stiles tried to pretend he wasn't relieved by it. Or that he cared at all. 

Rolling his eyes Stiles hurriedly but with great stealth descended the steps, catching the front door before it could swing shut. He slipped out quietly, wincing as his feet crunched on the leaves, but by now the wolf would have entered the living room where they could neither see nor hear him. 

The front of the house looked the same as the back, with rustic wood paneling and a wrap-around porch. In the driveway was Peters black Mercedes, and parked behind it was an ostentatious yellow convertible. A stray desire to scratch the pretty, polished paint sprung into his mind. He shoved it back down again; scratching it would be noisy. 

Stiles followed the driveway down to the dirt road where the paving ended. The path continued a few short yards into the mess of forest surrounding them. The gravely surface crunched underneath his shoes as he walked, leaves fluttering past him at a steady pace. He dropped his scent concealment once he stepped onto the dirt and stuck to the path, he didn't want to get himself lost, and on the off chance he did get into trouble he wanted Peter to be able to find him.

He shivered as he walked the narrow road. He knew he'd come down it once before when Deucalion abandoned him, but he couldn't remember the trip. The trees were much wider, much taller, and much more ancient than any he'd seen before. Their golden-orange leaves dropped to the ground like rain in the chilly autumn breeze. Stiles shivered and stuck his hands into his pockets, admiring the sights around him. 

He came to a fork in the road, one well worn and with a great many tire-tracks running through the dusty ground, while the other was largely covered in plant-life in varying stages of growth. 

Remembering the words of a popular poet, Robert Frost, he chose the road less traveled by. Figuring that another human would not lead him astray. 

As the path carried onwards the sky darkened around him, the pools of light that once filtered through open spaces between branches and leave narrowed into small slits that barely lit the ground. Soon he was completely surrounded by overgrowth. He'd always laughed when books and TV shows would portray trees as being hostile, after all, the were components of mother nature herself, and how could something so lovely and immovable ever be malicious? He knew now, as they towered above him, curling pointed branches down at him. The leaves that had on the outskirts been yellow and orange deepened to a dark, ugly shades of red and brown. A few offered a scarlet fruit he suspected were poisonous. 

Deciding he'd had enough of the wicked forest Stiles turned around, heading back the way he came. A few feet later he realized nothing looked familiar and wondered if it was just a trick of perspective or if he really was headed the wrong direction. 

His nerves became unsettled as he continued along, finding it harder and harder to locate the path. He kicked up soggy leaves and dead roots, hardly finding a trace. His own footsteps had been reclaimed by displaced brush. The darkness surrounding him only grew, with every passing step the forest crowded closer, forcing him to duck underneath branches and brush to avoid their sharpened points. 

He knew this was not the path he should be on, nothing looked familiar, and the forest was only getting thicker. His heart thudded like a jackhammer in his chest, remembering there were worse things in the forest than plants. His throat felt like concrete had been poured down and allowed to harden. He could barely breath as he stopped in his tracks, starring with bewilderment at the continuous stretch of growth before him.

He thought of his cellphone, back in the closet where it was of no use to him. Why hadn't he thought to bring it with him? Oh yes, because he was a brat. A very lost, very dead, brat, who was certainly going to die. He survived Ennis, and Deucalion, and being tossed off a roof, and at the end of the road what killed him was his own stupidity. 

"A little bit lost there, Stiles?" Stiles whirled around at unexpected voice, heart jumping three feet in his chest. 

Peter stood against a tree, his eyes glowing golden-brown in the dim light of the forest. His claws tapped against his arms, on them Stiles could see a trace of yellow. The cold didn't seem to bother him as his feet were bare. 

The thickness clogging Stiles throat dissipated, he swallowed back the tears and whines that threatened him. His own fingers twitched to dig into Peters jacket and bury his face against his chest like a lost child. His pride held him back. 

"I'm just uh, just . . . practicing my survival skills," he muttered weakly as he rubbed his shaking, reddening hands together. "You know, 'roughin' in in the woods' and all that, can never h-have too m-much fr-fresh air." The frozen air choked him as it filled his mouth. He pursed his lips firmly shut, tugging his hands into his sleeves. Peters face relaxed as Stiles spoke, his golden eyes receding back to blue. 

"Your survival skills are leading you straight into a swamp; you do know that, right?" Peter stepped away from the trees towards the human. He extended a hand out, Stiles turned away.

"S-Sure! Exactly what I'm l-looking for, there's clean water th-there." Stiles cursed the cold that made him stutter. 

"You're going to get clean water from a swamp?" Peter withdrew his offered hand, quirking a brow. "Swamps that are responsible for breeding thousands of disease-carrying larva every year, including malaria?" 

With all the confidence in the world, and with his head held high Stiles said; "yes, I am going to get clean water from a swamp." Peter sighed, his mouth turning up into a tight smile. 

"To think I was so worried about you," he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned on his heel. Peter continued to walk as he spoke, voice decreasing in volume as the distance grew between them. "Try not to die or anything, oh great survivalist." 

Stiles chased after him. 

The wolf slowed down wordlessly to match his pace until they were walking side-by-side. The trees around him were unfamiliar as their trek continued onwards, and with every twist and turn their path took Stiles realized just how backwards he'd gotten himself. If Peter hadn't come and found him he might have been in actual danger. 

"Uhm," Stiles scratched the back of his head, Peter looked down at him. "I'm sorry if I worried you." 

"Of course you worried me," Peter snapped. "I thought that witch had done something to you. I could barely find your scent, and the damn wind made it impossible to hear you. You're lucky I like you or I'd let you freeze to death out here. Don't ever do that to me again." Stiles winced and hung his head a little. He was lucky Peter cared enough to find him. 

"I'm just glad your safe, Stiles," his hair was ruffled in an all-too familiar way. This time Stiles didn't try to edge away from it. His heart fluttered. “Next time you decide to run away take your phone with you.” 

"Uh, thanks," he muttered, teeth chattering as they continued their walk. Gradually the trees regained their friendly, nonthreatening poses. 

"Who was th-that girl?" he asked, if only to break the silence. His arms and legs were starting to go numb. Peter shrugged off his jacket and before he could protest dropped it around Stiles shoulders. 

"I-I d-don't need-" 

"Really? After I walk all the way out here, following your scent like a bloodhound, I'd think the least you could do is watch my jacket for me. Ungrateful twerp," Peter grumbled, reaching a hand out to snag it back. 

"N-no, I can do that," Stiles said, moving out of his reach, stumbling a little on his frozen legs. He melted into the warmth wrapped around his shoulders. Werewolves made the best space heaters. For a second it seemed like Peter was ignoring his question. 

"Heather is a witch. I sell her plants native to the Hale property." 

"W-why didn't she go to your alpha?"

"Because they're illegal, Stiles," Peter said with a wink in his direction. "How has your tongue not frozen shut yet?" 

"Its getting there," Stiles admitted. "Do you like her?" 

"God no," Peter scoffed. "I could never love someone as obtuse as her. If she weren't a significant source of my income I'd want her to choke on her own witch hazel." If Stiles had any muscle movement left in his face he would have smiled, or even laughed. 

"Now, do you want to explain to me what you were doing wandering through the woods? Oh no wait, let me guess- I told you to stay some place safe and quiet, and so you decided to be oppositionally defiant and go some place not safe? Does that about sum it up?" An arm drapped around his shoulders and pulled him close.

". . . . Pretty much." He wormed his way out from underneath Peters arm. Wearing his jacket was one thing, letting him get his paws all over him was another. For one, it made a heat rise to his cheeks that had nothing to do with his body temperature. 

Light started to filter through the trees again as they became more evenly spaced. Stiles had never been so happy to see a house in his entire life. He took the steps two at a time, energy revitalizing in the possibility of a warm shower and a comfortable bed. Peter pushed him inside the house with a roll of his eyes, underneath the flickering light of the porch Stiles thought he saw a smile. 

He shedded Peters jacket from around his shoulders, hanging it up on its usual spot on the coat rack. 

"I'm going to take a shower," he said as he shrugged off his own jacket, hanging it up next to Peters. He wrung his his hands together in another attempt to warm them. 

"No, you're not. Come here." Stiles glared, head shooting up with a dark look on his face. If Peter was about to try and punish him or whatever then he-

"You'll damage your nerve endings if you heat up too fast, idiot. Just come here." Peter clasped Stiles hands in his own. They felt warm. They felt good. It felt good be touched by another person like this. Stiles shifted around awkwardly as he uncurled his fingers as they gradually began to warm. 

"I'm not a wolf," he was embarrassed by the shake in his voice. "Our bodies are-"

"I know the difference between a wolf and a human, Stiles," his tone was patronizing, but when Stiles met his eye they were soft. 

"You'd be the first," Stiles muttered in a voice to low for anyone but a wolf to hear. Peter laughed, and then he smiled, a small, genuine smile. It warmed the chill in his heart the same way he was warming his hands. 

Stiles eyes drifted upwards, but his head shot back down when he noticed the wolf was starring at him too. The look he'd been given haunted him. There was such a gentle affection in his eyes, Stiles didn't know how to react to it. 

"Idiot," he could feel Peters warm breath puff against the top of his head. 

"You sound like you were actually worried," Stiles mumbled, keeping his eyes trained on the floor as Peters hands warmed his own. The deft fingers rubbed over his reddened knuckles.

"Of _course_ I was worried," he growled out lowly, possessively. "You're mine. It's my job to protect you." Something about the way he said it made Stiles eyes start to water. It made him feel _wanted_. A too-soon second later and the man pulled away. 

"Go take your shower," Peter ruffled his hair, and Stiles backed up. Without casting a glance at him he dashed up the stairs to the bathroom, only stopping to grab some clothes from his room. 

As he turned on the shower and stepped under the water he tried to repress the mounting feelings inside of him. Peter wanted him; and he wanted Peter to want him, and that wasn't acceptable. 

He was getting close to him, attached to him. He couldn't have that, because Peter wouldn't be around very long, because he would never be as attached to him as Stiles was, and because one day he would wake up and Peter would not be there to comfort him. 

Most of his owners didn't break a year, let alone the three he and Deucalion shared. Even if he liked Peter, circumstances changed and he would always be 'just a pet.' He couldn't let himself get close; it would just hurt more when Peter decided he wasn't worth keeping. 

Another girl, like Heather, could come along. One who didn't want Stiles around, and surely he would choose his mate over his pet. Ennis once told him that mates 'always come first, always.' 

He let the water run down his back in hot bursts as he thought how best to separate himself from his owner. He could do something awful, something to get him 'rehomed' but that was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid for so long.

When the water started to run cold and his hair couldn't get anymore clean he stepped out of the shower. He dried his hair with a towel, reveling in the sauna-like steam leftover from the shower heat. Even the tiles felt warm underfoot. 

"Stiles! Food!" he heard Peter shout from the kitchen. Throwing on a T-shirt and pants he descending the stairs again, biting back a curse as he stepped into a cold-spot his shoes had left. He hopped on one foot into the kitchen, pajama pants dripping onto the floor.

"Wash your hands," Peter demanded, looking disapprovingly at the puddle Stiles trailed behind him, "and could you have wiped your feet?" In one hand Peter held a butcher knife which he used to slice through chunks of potato laid out on a cutting board. 

"I thought you said food was done?" Stiles asked, ignoring his question. He stole a chunk of potato off the cutting board and examined it.

"I said no such thing. Make yourself useful and start cutting carrots," he plucked the potato slice out of Stiles hands and gave him a gentle push towards the fridge. "I'm sure that's a task even you can't mess up. Don't get distracted talking to girls this time either." 

"If there were any girls here I might," he said, pulling another knife from the drawer, "but you keep them all to yourself." 

"Don't be jealous, kitten - you're the only one allowed in my bed," the knife Stiles held dropped from his hand with a clutter onto the ground. He stooped to pick it up and hide the encroaching heat from his face. 

"St-stop calling me kitten," he grumbled, keeping his back to Peter as he retrieved the carrots and a second cutting board. His hair was ruffled from behind by a warm hand, making water droplets fall onto the board. 

"Oh? But I thought you were identifying as a cat." 

"Well not 'identifying' so much as 'identified.'" He placed the knife on the edge of the carrot, slicing it into pieces. Years of cooking for himself had at least made him adept at cutting things that weren't himelf. 

"Sooo, I was thinking," he started as he sliced into the second carrot. 

"Oh, what a strange new experience for you. I've never been more proud." 

"Shuttup," Stiles whined. "I was thinking, if Heathers a witch that means she's human, doesn't it?" From his periphery he could see Peter visibly tense behind him.

"No. That girl traded whatever humanity she was born with for power. I know you how you feel about being human, but don't try following in her footsteps." Stiles bit his lip. If that's how he felt about witches how would he feel about housing a druid?

"I don't want to be a witch," Stiles said, and he meant it. Witches were cruel, and they used other members of their species mercilessly. He could never bring himself to preform witch magic. The thought of taking another life disturbed him.

"Good," Peter said, nodding his head in approval. "It's unlikely you're ever going to see her again, anyways." 

"Why?" Stiles frowned as he sliced into another vegetable. 

"When I noticed you were missing I may have made some . . . unpleasant accusations about her, her mother, and where they both came from." Peter shrugged. "The damage to her car alone-" 

"You attacked her?" Stiles eyes widened in surprise. He turned to face Peter, eyes flicking down to his nails where the yellow flakes had been. He scanned Peters face for any trace of blood. Peter rolled his eyes. 

"Her? No, I'm not that much of a brute. But her car has seen better days." A wicked grin spread across his face. 

"You damaged her car? Why? Are you going to get in trouble?" Stiles stomach tightened into a knot. He didn't want Peter getting himself into trouble all because he'd acted out. Peter rested his hand on the tortured humans shoulders. 

"Because, I thought she hurt something that belonged to me. As for 'getting in trouble,' if she told my alpha I damaged her property, she'd have to explain what she was doing here in the first place. She's not going to do that, trust me." Peter winked at him, patting him on the back. "Put it out of your mind, kitten." 

"I finished cutting the carrots," Stiles announced. 

"Good boy," Peter praised. "Put them in the pot, then." Stiles did as he was asked without complaint, sliding the carrots in along with the potatoes. They made a pleasant simmering noise when they hit the water. 

Peter let Stiles pick the rest of the ingredients from his well stocked fridge, only pausing to ensure he wasn't trying to brew a poison. Stiles stirred his mess of carrots, cellery, mushrooms, and potatoes.

"Maybe I should just let you cook from now on," Peter said as he watched Stiles pour spices into the mix. "You seem quite adept at it." Stiles shrugged. 

"I've had lots of time on my hands. Ennis said I should be a chef, but he also said I shouldn't be around knives, so . . . " he trailed off when he caught Peter looking at him. There was that look again, so softly affectionate. It made him feel uncomfortable. Stiles turned off the stove. 

"I think it's done now." Peter stood next to him and sniffed at the pot. 

"It smells good.It's nice to know you have skills outside of getting into trouble, and being sarcastic." His hand ran through Stiles hair, causing an electric jolt through him. _He keeps touching me,_ Stiles thought, allowing the motion to continue down his back. He knitted his brows together. 

"Mhm," Stiles ladled some of the soup into a bowl and handed it to Peter, facing the pot the entire time. 

They ate quietly, both contented with the silence around them. Stiles was just happy to be in the warmth and comfort the large kitchen provided, and cooking made him feel just a little less useless. 

The rest of the day was spent with Stiles perusing netflix while Peter locked himself away in his study, to do whatever he did in there. He only came out once to eat some of the leftover soup for dinner, sitting down next to Stiles and watching the old superhero movie Stiles put on. 

"Is your fascination with superheros a projection of something?" Peter asked, while slurping at his spoon. 

"Yes, how utterly boring my life is." 

"I wouldn't say 'boring,' today you got lost in the woods, met an evil witch, and made some delicious soup. How is that boring?" 

"Okay, maybe not boring," he agreed, eyes glued to the screen. 

"You're awful quiet again, kitten." 

"I'm just watching TV. I thought you liked when I was quiet?" 

"You've asked me a lot of questions about witches today," Peter said, eyes flashing in the dark. Stiles nodded sleepily. 

"I ask you lots of question everday." 

"Hm, true, but I think it's about time you answer one of mine." 

"Well, alright, but if its about my amazing- hey!" Stiles was cut off as Peter pounced on top of him in a move that was too fast for him to follow with his eyes. His arms were pinned beside his head on the pillow, Peters legs pressing down on his own. His breath caught in his throat as Peter glowered down at him from above. 

"How did you hide your scent from me?" he purred in a sultry voice. His nose brushed over Stiles cheek. 

"I didn't," Stiles lied. It was a bad lie, he'd covered his scent well, too well, and now Peter was on to him. "The weathers pretty nasty out, humidity probably covered it up." 

"That isn't how scents work," Peters face drew closer, his hot breath ghosting over Stiles lips. Stiles felt a small tremor run through him.

"Maybe you're just getting old, then?" he teased. "I've heard it happens a lot with older wolves, you know, 'performance issues' and the like?" Peters eyes narrowed into shining slits. 

"Careful, kitten," Peter whispered into his ear. "We prefer the term 'experienced' and I would just _love_ to show you what else I'm experienced in." Peters nose found its way down to his pulse, then just underneath his ear. Stiles clenched his eyes shut, shuddering down his spine. If not for his spark he would be a mess of arousal scent. 

The phone in the office started to ring. Peter grunted his annoyance. Then turned his attention back to the human trapped underneath him. 

"I'm sure, after a long life of living with wolves you've learned some thing you'd rather not share, but rest assured, I will find out," Peter leaned their foreheads together, giving him an intent look. Then pushed himself up off the sofa. 

"I'd better go answer that; it's probably Heather." Stiles watched him leave with a stunned look on his face, finding it remarkably hard to return to watching TV.


	10. Apptitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter learns Stiles secret.

"Wait, wait, wait wait!" Stiles dug his feet into the ground, refusing to make this any easier than it already was. Peter rolled his eye and tugged him along, barely breaking a sweat over the humans defiance. 

"No. I've seen what you get up to when left to your own devices. May I remind you of _last week_?" 

"I already said I was sorry! C'mon, Peter!" 

"No," Peter repeated firmly, dragging Stiles into his study. "If you'd just behaved the first time I asked maybe things like this wouldn't be necessary." Stiles growled resentfully as he was pushed towards the studys unneccesarily large closet. 

"I'm just going to break out again," he warned. Peter thwacked him on the top of the head with the broom he held in his other hand. 

"Ow!" Stiles yelped, smacking the bristles away from him. 

"You do, and I'll put you right back." He was shoved inside the closet firmly, but gently. The door shut condemningly behind him. He heard the sound of the broom barring the handles. 

"I hate you!" Stiles shouted, kicking at the door in his helpless fury. At least this time he'd gotten the chance to eat breakfast before being dragged off to his 'kennel.'

"The feelings mutile," Peter sang in his condescending way, his footsteps echoing as he left the room, shutting the study door behind him. Stiles groaned in frustration, sliding down the wall. 

Peter had - not inaccurately - guessed that the hapless human knew how to pick locks, and solved the problem by shoving him in a space where there were no locks, only a very heavy door, and a very thick broom holding it shut. 

He considered staying put as his owner instructed, but where was the fun in that? The same magic he'd used to open the hallway closet could be used again, but the strain of lifting and moving an object was much greater than nudging a mechanical lock into place. 

He waited five minutes to ensure Peter wouldn't be returning. When he heard no signs of life he placed his hands flat against the door and closed his eyes. The broom rattled back and forth for only a minute, with an almost violent force was thrust out of its lodging and onto the floor. With nothing holding it closed the door creaked open on its own. Stiles poked his head out. 

Peter was sitting at his desk, watching him through half-lidded eyes. 

"Well, that was interesting," Peter purred at the young spark. Stiles blanched. 

\---

"Show me." Peter backed against Stiles the door, hands on either side of him to keep him in place. 

"No." Stiles remained resolute, even as Peter bore down on him with exacting eyes. Innocent until proven guilty, normal until proven strange. "I didn't do anything."

Peter snarled and poked him squarely in the chest with a blunt fingernail. "You are the most insufferable human." 

Stiles winced and kept his eyes towards the window. "I don't care." 

"No, you never care, do you?" Stiles shook his head. His stupidly willful nature was about to cost him another home, and admitting now that he actually _liked_ Peter would do more harm than good. It was much better to be angry. He didn't want to spend the holiday with Peter anyways, he liked snow too much. Maybe his next home would be back up north, like Montana, or Minnesota. 

"I'm just trying to have a conversation with you, Stiles. Stop getting upset." His tone was gentler. He tried to catch Stiles eyes but the boy stubbornly turned away again. 

"Whatever," he snapped, keeping his arms crossed tight over his body. His fingernails dug into his skin. It was like being stuck in a constant disappointing loop of developing affection and crushed hopes. 

"Just, show me," Peter demanded again. 

". . . Fine!" Stiles breathed, dropping his arms down to his sides. It was bound to happen sooner or later. He was only putting off the inevitable. Peter stepped back from him. 

Stiles extended his arms towards where the broom lay on the floor. He closed his eyes to concentrate and reached for his spark. It waned when his conscious mind tried to grab hold of it. He only managed to lift the broom a few inches before it dropped to the ground.

"You're holding back," Peter accused. 

"I'm not. I just . . . I can't," Stiles said with a careless shrug of his shoulders. 

"Why not?" 

"I'm too nervous. It never works right when I need it too," his voice cracked when he spoke. 

"So you are a spark then?" Stiles nodded grimly, swallowing back the tears that threatened his eyes, he rewrapped his arms tightly around his chest. It was easier to be angry, but he couldn't find it within himself to hold onto that flame, just as he couldn't hold onto his spark. He kept thinking about how he was possibly just a few hours away from being in a car, or a train, maybe on a plane, towards some unknown destination with his tablet and some books and nothing else to comfort him. The nightmares would come back, the itching in his brain, it was all so close and it had been so far away. His sides started to ache. 

"It appears we have a lot to talk about," Peters voice wasn't angry, but then Deucalions hadn't been either. "Did Deucalion know about this?" Stiles mouth had glued itself shut, he nodded again, refusing to look Peter in the eyes. He didn't want to see the distrust and apprehension he'd seen in his past owners faces. They always wore the same look when they were kicking him out. 

"Stiles? What's wrong?" Peter pressed close to him, he tried to peel Stiles arms away from his chest. The warm hands pressing against him made him jolt.

The broom snapped itself in half, several books toppled off the shelf and banged onto the floor. Stiles winced. He hadn't meant to do it, his emotions just exploded and his spark along with them. Peter jumped and flashed yellow eyes, growling at the pile of books on the floor. 

"No!" Stiles shook his head, yanking his arm out of Peters grasp. "Leave me the alone! I don't care what you think," he snapped, tearing himself away from Peter and dashing up the stairs. He didn't make it more than halfway before Peters arms were around him again, turning him so they were face to face. Stiles head was forced into the space between Peters neck and his shoulder. Without thinking Stiles bit him, digging his teeth into rough flesh. Peter released him with a shove and Stiles darted up the stairs again.

He didn't get far before Peter grabbed him again, yanking him back and forcing him into a hug. Stiles kicked and growled at him, struggling and thrashing against the hold. It was futile, and he knew it. The wolf was stronger, smarter, he could easily snap Stiles neck and who would ever care? His watering eyes spilled over, legs turning to mush as sadness flooded his heart. 

Peter purred, but it wasn't content. The sound he made was that of a mother cat trying to comfort a distressed kitten. The soft, throaty, rumbling reverberated throughout his chest. Stiles closed his eyes and let his head rest against Peters shoulder. 

"Don't abandon me," he whimpered, going lax in his hold. His hot tears trailed onto Peters clothing. A sharp pain stabbed just above his belly-button. 

"You're already mine, I'd never abandon you," Peter whispered, gently leading him back down the stairs towards the living room. Stiles clung onto his arm, his blunt human nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. 

"C'mon, just lie down. You're alright," Peter offered, pushing him down onto the furniture. He shoved the grey throw into Stiles arms. Stiles buried his head in the blanket. Peter settled next to Stiles and pulled him against his chest, keeping one hand tight on the nape of his neck. Stiles settled into the hold, curling his knees up to his chest. Peter flicked on the TV to some history channel, letting the noise from the speakers cover the noise of Stiles soft whines. 

"At some point," Peter said once Stiles had quieted down some, "we are going to talk about this. But it doesn't have to be now, and I don't know why you would think I'd abandon you over it." 

"Ask Deucalion," Stiles mumbled bitterly, nuzzling Peters shoulder. Peter growled. 

"Deucalion is a shit alpha. He should have taken much better care of his beta. Look at the condition your in, and he just gives you away?" Peter scoffed, taking one of Stiles hands and rubbing over his sweaty palm. 

"He wasn't my alpha; he was my owner." 

"Doesn't matter. You were his dependent, he was supposed to take care of you and nurture you and now look at how you've ended up. You're a mess, boy," Peter nuzzled under his ear and squeezed his hand. 

"This is so stupid," Stiles choked out a laughed full of self-pity and derision. "I'm so needy and desperate."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, and Stiles felt a pang of hurt. "But I'm here, and I'm going to take care of you. You're my-" 

"Pet?" Stiles finished spitefully. 

"-packmate," Peter continued. He had a sudden pang of longing for Ennis, the only other wolf who'd ever considered him more than just a pet. "I will be a better alpha to you than he ever was. It shouldn't be that hard," Peter joked with a soft smile, pressing his nose underneath his ear. Stiles couldn't help but give a small smile. 

"Do you want to take a nap, now?" he asked. "It might make you feel better." His hands ran up and down the boys sides gently. 

"No, I don't want to sleep. All I ever do is cry, sleep, and panic," Stiles turned over so he was better facing Peter. He rested his head against Peters chest. 

"And apparently levitate objects," Stiles grimaced. "I know you're upset, and we're going to do something about it. It's not normal to be this distressed, Stiles, and . . . I think you should start taking your medications again." Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut him off.

"I don't mean all of them, and not if you don't want too, but you have issues, and you should be doing something about them. Letting you wallow in fear and self-pity isn't healthy. I much prefer the defiant brat," Peter poked him again. Stiles almost smiled, he preferred being a defiant brat too. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"I don't like those pills. They make me feel dumb." 

"I'm not suggesting you take horse tranquilizers, but, maybe there's a healthy medium? We'll figure something out, Stiles. Together." 

". . . I want to watch a movie," Stiles was exhausted but he didn't want to sleep. He was afraid if he closed his eyes he'd open them and Peter wouldn't be there. He just wanted to stop having this conversation, to pretend like things were fine and Peter hadn't caught him levitating a broom. 

"Will that calm you down?" Stiles nodded. Peters hand rubbed over his back in a slow, steady rhythm."Alright, then." He was handed a small black remote and Peter stood up. Stiles stomach cramped and knotted when he was displaced, looking up at his owner with beseeching eyes. 

"I'm going to go take care of the mess in the study; you pick a movie and I'll be back in a few minutes. Okay?" He said it gently, stroking over the top of Stiles head. Stiles nodded again, propping himself up against the back of the couch. Stiles bit his lip and started flicking through the netflix screen. 

The sound of Peters shoes scraping on the floor upstairs comforted him. It meant Peter was still there, and that he hadn't already started calling other people to rehome him. 

When he came back Stiles tried to pretend he wasn't ecstatic. Peter wrapped his arm around his shoulders without saying a word and pulled him close. 

"Gamara, really?" Peter wrinkled his nose. 

"Hey, it's a classic!" The shake had almost completely left from his voice. 

"It's classically _bad_ ," Peter furrowed his brow. "Making me sit through this is almost enough to make me rehome you." Stiles stiffened. 

"I'm just joking, Stiles,” Peter rolled his eyes. “I'm not rehoming you; ever," he swore. Stiles turned to look him dead in the eyes.

"Oh yeah? Prove it," years of false promises had not built much trust within him.

"Okay," Peter agreed without hesitation, a wicked grin spread across his face. “Tell me, are you squeamish?”


	11. Artistic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter shows Stiles how permanent their attachment is. Stiles doesn't like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent twenty minutes trying to think of an A word that means 'artistic' . . .

_“I needed a break from my mate,” Ennis said without shame as Stiles dug through the cabinets for popcorn._

_“Ooooh, someones having lady troubles,” he teased while pulling a box of Orvilles off the shelf. If they were going to have a movie marathon they were going to do it right. He thought Ennis might like watching the Avengers, if only for the fight scenes._

_“No,” Ennis shook his head. “Kali is beautiful, strong, and clever, but,” he chose his words carefully, “sometimes, I need a break from such a strong, clever woman.”_

_“I don’t hear you complaining about her beauty.” Stiles grinned as he popped open the microwave, putting the popcorn bag inside. Deucalion rarely let him have salty snacks, but Ennis had been doing most of the shopping recently. It had been about two months since Stiles last saw his owner._

_“Would you?” Ennis asked, poking him in the ribs. Stiles flinched reflexively. At least the wolf had gotten a little better about not completely bruising him up during his visits. Stiles laughed._

_“Trust me, if there was an attractive person in here living with me, I wouldn’t complain about anything, _ever_.” He pressed the button and turned around. Ennis was frowning down at him. _

_“I told Deucalion you needed a friend."_

_“You did?” Stiles quirked a brow._

_“Yes, humans are meant to be social," Ennis shrugged, pulling a stack of DVDs out of the bag he'd brought over. "Even I know that. You need someone to mate with.”_

_"Well, I don't know about 'mate with,'” he said, giving a nervous laugh, “but seeing another human would be nice,” he said in a forlorn way he hadn't intended. "But I'm fine. I've always been by myself, I'm probably always going to _be_ by myself," he smiled sadly, shrugging off the demons that leeched at his brain. _

_"You're not fine," Ennis furrowed his brows, sniffing at the top of Stiles head. Stiles bit his lip just as the popcorn finished popping. He turned away from Ennis in a jerky movement. He took out the bag and set it on the table._

_"Can you find a bowl for me? I'm going to make more, between the two of us, we-"_

_"Stiles," Ennis growled. "I can smell it on you when you leave; the whole _city_ can smell it on you. You're lonely." _

_“Stop sniffing at me, it's invasive,” Stiles batted him away, backing out of the werewolves reach when he felt a hand on his shoulder._

_"Stiles . . . " Ennis hesitated, stepping forward and putting his hand back where it had been. Stiles turned to face him again, but he couldn't meet his gaze. He couldn't face the pitying way the alpha looked at him._

_"I respect Deucalion, but not the way he treats you. It isn't right to let a beta suffer all alone.” There was a small moment of silence. Ennis seemed to struggle with something internally, but only for a moment. “Do you want the bite?”_

_Stiles froze, his heart sped, his head snapped up, almost unbelieving of what he'd heard. Ennis was offering to bite him, to turn him into a werewolf. No one had ever done that._

_“If we do it right now you could be a wolf by nightfall, and if you die, well," Ennis smiled weakly, "no one would say it wasn't an accident." Stiles tongue felt like lead. His throat closed up._

_"My pack is large. You are weak, but intelligent, and I think you would fit in well. My mate might not accept you so readily, but I think with time . . ." he let the words trail off. Stiles legs were shaking. "You would be happier, if you lived?"_

_Ennis took his silence with a grim nod. His eyes flashed red and locked onto the humans throat, stepping forward as his fangs descended. A million thoughts flooded through the humans mind. First was the freedom and autonomy being a werewolf would bring, the second was how likely he was to die if the bite didn't take. Then he thought of his parents and how all he had left of them was his skin and bones. Would they still want him back if he were a wolf?_

_Ennis opened his mouth for the strike._

_“No!” Stiles shouted, jerking back. Ennis snarled but didn't move forward. His red eyes flickered. "No, I- It means a lot to me that you'd do that," he said while wringing his hands together. "But my humanity is all I have left, it's the one thing that hasn't been taken from me by wolves. I want to stay a human."_

_It took Ennis a few minutes to process this; but then he nodded and his eyes returned to normal._

_"If you ever change your mind," they shared a meaningful look._

_"Thank you, Ennis," he breathed, accepting the ensuing bear hug._

\---

"This isn't what I meant, Peter." 

"You said you wanted proof I intended to keep you forever, and ever, and ever, what could be more permanent than this?” the elder teased, poking Stiles on the nose. He moved back around the chair to flip through one of the colorful sketchbooks that lines the walls of the tattoo parlor. 

"Shouldn't I get like a cookie or something?" Stiles picked nervously at his fingernails, feeling anxious but managing it. He'd been on a half dose of his previous medications since the unfortunate revelation of his spark a week ago. To his surprise they actually _worked_ when he wasn't loaded up on them. At night he could fall asleep even without having Peter directly next to him. Peter could leave to meet with a client or go to the store by himself and Stiles would still be breathing when he returned home. Maybe a little more curtly, and maybe he'd text nine times in the same hour just to be _sure_ Peter was coming home, but it helped. Part of it was the medication, but mostly it was knowing that even as a druid Peter would still want him. 

"That's only if you donate blood, Stiles," Peter flipped through the sketchbook nonchalantly while Stiles squirmed against the uncomfortable leather chair. At least no one had asked to pet him, yet. 

"This is basically the same thing! I don't like needles," he whined. Having the Hale Family crest tattoo'd on his upper forearm might have been flattering, if it didn't make him feel even more like a piece of property than he already did. In accordance with Hale family policy he was also being microchipped, both of which felt like a blatant violation of his already dwindling rights. Peter had been petting him snidely since he'd brought him in. 

"Come, now. Talia says it'll make you feel more like family, are you feeling like family yet, Stiles?" Peter gave him a sardonic smile. Stiles stuck his tongue out. 

"Honestly, I feel more like a dog at the groomers," he griped while sliding further down in his chair. Tattoos were painful and he was squeamish, in addition, at some point in the future it might need to be lasered off. No owner would want another packs mark on their pet, although, maybe he would be changing hands solely amongst the Hale family. Peter always warned that the pack alpha, Talia, was a 'vicious, bossy, despot,which meant she was probably a lovely woman who cared deeply for her family. 

"Oh we _should_ take you to the groomer, we can have something done about this ridiculous mess you call hair," Peter tugged on the short cropping of brown hair that sprouted over his forehead. 

"Hey," Stiles glared at him, smacking his hand away. He paled as the tattoo artist reentered the room. He shrunk back when he eyed the large needle held in his left hand. Stiles vision started to blur. 

"Stiles?" the artist asked, looking down at the quavering human. Peter nodded. The artist smiled gently as he sat down next to him. He was the only artist in the area trained to work with humans, and that made the situation just a little more bearable.

"It's alright, buddy," the man said, patting him calmly on the arm. "It's only gonna hurt a little, and I'm sure your owner would be more than happy to drain all your pain away as soon as we're done." 

"I'm a biter. I bite. I'll bite you if you touch me with that." Stiles gave his best impersonation of a howl, which sounded more like a bad case of bronchitis. The wolf looked up at Peter with alarm. 

"No, he won't," Peter thwacked him on the back of his head. "Behave, brat." Stiles winced and rubbed the back of his head. 

His stomach churned violently as the tattoo machine whirred to life. He didn't get past the first thirty second before his vision went completely dark and his head hit the back of the chair. 

\----

"All I'm saying is most people don't faint from _seeing_ the needle," Peter grumbled as they trudged back inside the house. 

"It's not my fault! I told you I was squeamish, I told you _several_ times! you're the one who kept saying I'd be fine. Was I fine? No." Stiles followed him inside,unzipping his jacket and throwing it carelessly onto the sofa. Peter rolled his eyes and snatched it up, hanging it in the appropriate spot near the door. 

"Wipe your shoes," he scolded when Stiles took a step off the doormat without wiping them. Stiles drug his feet on the mat without complaint, not fully understanding why he was supposed to wipe his shoes when he was just going to take them off anyways. 

"You're lucky he has another appointment open next month, or I would have just left you there until you got tattoo'd." Peter said. 

"Wait, you mean we have to go _back?_ " Stiles looked up with wide eyes as he sat down to pull off his boots. Stiles stuck out his tongue when Peter pretended to step on him. 

"Yes, Stiles. I mean we have to go back." His owner tapped him lightly on the head as he passed, entering into the living room. Stiles noted that not once had Peter wiped his own feet. 

"Why can't we just draw on my arm with sharpie, and _say_ we went back?" He heard the garbled noise of the television being turned. Shoving his socks inside his boots for later retrieval Stiles met his owner in the living room.

"Talia would know the difference," Peters fingers tightened on the remote as he flipped through the channels. His eyes narrowed. "She's more afraid than you are that I'm going to sell you on the black market. At least you got microchipped, be thankful that's done." 

"There's a microchip in me?" Stiles frowned. "Where? When did that happen?" He patted himself down frantically, searching for the device without luck. He wasn't even sure where microchips were typically implanted. 

"In order -Yes, I'm not telling you, and, while you were unconscious," Peter answered in succession, patting the spot next to him for Stiles to sit down. The human ignored his gesture and scratched at the back of his neck, knowing it was the preferred spot for pets. _Oh, that's right. I am a pet,_ he thought grimly while he felt up the area with his fingertips. 

Peters eyebrows knitted together when he looked over at the frazzled boy. 

"Stop doing that," he snapped. "You're not going to find it." Stiles pouted and removed his hands. Peter was right, and even if he did find it there was little he could do. 

"I still think I should have gotten a treat," he said as he flopped down onto the sofa next to his master, resting his head on Peters lap. Cuddling together every night had lessened his respect for personal space. Peter evidently felt the same as he stroked the top of Stiles head. 

It was strange to him how this action that once would have infuriated and vexed him to the point of screaming, now seemed normal and almost comforting. Perhaps he eventually would have reached such a level of comfort with his previous owners, but it seemd unlikely. 

"Would you like me to rub your belly?" Peter snarked, running his other hand underneath Stiles shirt. Stiles gasped and arched his back, feeling the familiar tickle down his spine. 

"Oooh, I forgot how sensitive you are," Peter chuckled darkly, running the tips of his fingers from Stiles chest down to his naval. 

"Stop it!" Stiles squealed, struggling fiercely to escape. Peters grip on him tightened, keeping him in place with one hand pinning his shoulder. Stiles wrapped his arms around his stomach defensively. 

"How well can you hide your scent, Stiles?" Peter asked, tilting his head to one side. They hadn't yet had their conversation about Stiles magical abilities, and Stiles was just fine with that. He would rather pretend he didn't have them at all if it meant he got to keep his home. 

"Wha-" Stiles cut off as Peters hand returned to his belly button and continued to rub. He shuddered when the hand started to dip lower. 

"You know, I thought you were an asexual for a while there," Peter said as he gave Stiles stomach another pet that dipped lower than the first. Stiles flushed, and drew his knees up, wondering exactly what Peter was trying to get at. He could guess, but he didn't want too.

"Wolves can hide there scents too, you know. It's a rather useful skill when you have an adorable neurotic sleeping in your bed," Peter winked at him. With a blush Stiles recognized the lump pressing into the back of his head was not Peters leg. He jolted up into a sitting position, and Peter willingly released him. His spark flared to dilute his scent, and Stiles understood the meaning behind his question. 

"You're hard, right now." Stiles pointed out. He wished he hadn't. 

"Yes, having a cute teenager gasping and whining on my lap tends to do that," Peter looked completely non-pulsed as he returned to watching TV, a smirk on his face. Stiles was less nonchalant.

\----

Stiles was now and would forever be the cutest kid Peter had ever met. Even his neurosis was adorable, the way he would fidget and chatter like a displeased squirrel. He liked causing the pink tint to run up Stiles body and into his cheeks, and liked the way his ears would redden to the color of tomato. He would tease and embarrass him to see his tongue twist into knots as he failed to explain. 

After he released Stiles the boy retreated to the library, probably to do more mischievous things.

He meant it when he said he would never part with Stiles, but now, he knew fully why Deucalion had been so eager to do just the opposite. 

Stiles had a spark, a druid. If properly trained he could become more powerful than even the greatest of werewolves. He was a threat, one that either needed to be protected and cultivated, or discretely eliminated. It was also completely and utterly _illegal_ to have him. Illegal possession of a regular human was a slap on the wrist at most. Illegal possession of a druid meant investigations, federal agents, the Argent Group would certainly be involved, and not just for the werewolf accused but for the families and packmates too. They would not rest until they figured out exactly where the druid had come from, and if there were any more like him. That wouldn't have been so bad if Peters entire livelihood didn't center around _not_ being investigated by law enforcement. 

Deucalion would have been too cowardly, or too concerned to try and kill Stiles himself. Plus, the destruction of such a valuable human would conflict with his 'peace and love' ideologies. So he gave him to Peter, in hopes that he would make that decision for him. Peter could guess which one he wanted, if he really wanted Stiles to be safe he would have given him up to Talia, or Laura instead. He wasn't ignorant to what people thought of him. 

Peter clenched his fists in anger, closing his eyes tightly to keep from losing his cool. Stiles was a good kid, he didn't deserve to be shuffled about like property. He had come to accept the quirky boy as a member of his pack. Not the Hale pack, but _his_ pack. Stiles was the only member, and Peter intended to cherish him. 

He watched Stiles from where he stood, leaning against the doorway. The boy had set up a circle of books around him, hovering them in the air. His abilities were weak, but they were growing. He had yet to notice his silent observer in the corner.

He hadn't yet spoken to Stiles about his spark, but it was high time they had that conversation.   
\---

"Do your powers include things other than levitation?" he asked, if only to watch his brown eyes widen. Stiles started, throwing his arms up above his head to protect his delicate skulls. The books fell around him, a few smacking him on the head as they fell. 

"Asshole," Stiles glared. 

"You aren't very good at this are you?" Peter asked with a tsk. 

"Well, maybe if someone wasn't always distracting me," he snapped. Peter chuckled and knelt down beside him, putting a hand on Stiles bruising shoulder. A short second later and the pain there was gone. 

"Uh, thanks?" Peter nodded. 

"So how long, exactly, have you been beating yourself in the head with books?" Stiles grimaced. 

"Are we really going to have this conversation now?" 

Peter rapped on Stiles skull. "We might as well. Before you develope brain damage." Stiles sighed and tucked his legs underneath him, turning his doe eyes up to the ceiling in thought. 

"I found my spark when I was fourteen. I lived with this guy, his wife, and their three kids. He was some kind of veterinarian, I think. He always talked about this druid, named Allen Deaton-" Peter grimaced at the mention of his emissary. Deaton was an invaluable asset, but he might try to take Stiles away as his apprentice, and Peter couldn't have that. Stiles caught the change in his expression. 

"Do you know him?" 

"Maybe. Continue." 

"He was always talking about him. I started looking up druids and stuff on my tablet and read about them. I read about 'sparks' and how they worked, and I tried to feel for one. Nothing happened the first few weeks, but after a while I started to feel something. It wasn't big, and it wasn't bright, like the books said it would be. It was just . . . there.

The curious look he gave when asking about Deaton vanished underneath a mournful frown. "It's never worked properly. Everything I read says I should have a connection to it, but, it comes and goes." 

Peter listened attentively while Stiles explained. Talking about his spark the boys eyes darkened. He averted his gaze to the window, hardly making eye contact while his mouth continued to form words. 

"So, anyways, I kept practicing and practicing, and eventually I could feel enough of it that I could lift small objects. I even cracked one of the windows in my owners kitchen." Stiles sat a little straighter after confessing his crime, his voice just a little more proud. 

"Is that why you were sent to live with Deucalion?" Peter knitted his brows together. He imagined a young, fourteen year old Stiles discovering theses talents and having no one to share them with, no one he could confide in, thinking what he was doing was wrong and he should feel ashamed, but being proud regardless. 

"No. There was a . . . different reason.” The light brushing of pink dusted Stiles cheeks again, the color that he loved. 

"What happened?" 

"I . . . I'll tell you some other time, okay? It's kind of embarrassing." Peter stared at him curiously, but didn't push. 

"How do you know Allen Deaton?" 

"His name sounds familiar," Peter lied without skipping a beat. "But I don't remember."

"Oh," the boys expression fell. "Peter?" 

"Yes?"

"Why is having a spark such a bad thing? I can't change it." Peter chose his words like stepping on a minefield. He wasn't about to tell Stiles he was a threat, the boy only wanted to belong, and he didn't know what such a revelation would do to him. 

"It isn't, not really. It just makes you special, and people don't like things that are more special than them," said Peter with a wink. He grabbed Stiles by the elbow and pulled him up to his feet. 

"C'mon, let's go see what else your spark can do." 

"I think that's the first time you've called me special and I took it as a compliment."

"It's the first time I've called you special and _meant_ it as a compliment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose you could read this as past Ennis/Stiles if you wanted, but I wrote it with the intention of being more of a friendship between them.


	12. Aromatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is smut in this chapter, just fyi. Badly written smut, but its there.

In this moment Stiles hated Peter. He hated his lack of personal space, his arrogance, his perfectly chiseled jawline, his muscled arms that kept him prisoner, and most of all, he hated the very specific problem pressing hard against his thigh. 

His face brightened to a pink tinge that Peter liked to call 'pretty, skipping, virgin, frolicking in a rose garden.' Stiles would have pointed out that he was _not_ a virgin, but that would open up a whole 'nother dialogue he did not care to have. 

Had they not caught him fornicating in a tree with one of their more promiscuous cousins, he might have stayed with that family forever. But he had been caught, and three days later his bags were packed and he was sent to live with Deucalion. Apparently the poison oak infection on his ass, back, and thighs hadn't been punishment enough. 

He tried moving away but Peter grumbled in his sleep and pressed Stiles closer, one of his hands draping lazily to rest over the small of his back. The red in his cheeks increased as Stiles tried for the tenth time to pull away. He was afraid of squirming and waking up his bedpartner, whos constant shifting was causing a similar warmth to spread to his own groin. It wasn't his fault that he was a young, hormonal, boy who'd gone a very long time without being touched. 

Peter mumbled something underneath his breath and nuzzled against Stiles throat. Stiles breath quickened, unwittingly waking his owner from his slumber. Stiles bit down on his lip, willing his spark to stay firm and his scent diluted as Peters eyes squinted open. 

Peter blinked at him, taking in his flushed appearance and the position of his hands against his chest. 

"Stiles, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed. 

"What am I doing?" Stiles practically shouted. "You're the one who's been dry humping me for half the morning!" He would have flailed had his arms not been firmly trapped between their bodies, so he wiggled instead. 

"Hm, so I have," Peter commented dryly, releasing the boy from his hold. Stiles shuffle back on the bed, sitting up. Peter sat up as well, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. He made no effort to cover his increasingly obvious erection. 

"Well you don't seem too upset about it," Stiles pointed out. 

Peter yawned and picked up his cellphone. "I am an adult, Stiles, these things happen." 

"Really? I thought you would be too old to get it up," Stiles snarked, and without warning found himself forcibly yanked back and his cheek pressed into the pillow. The clawed hand appeared on the nape of his neck, holding him down. Peter put his leg inbetween Stiles, effectively pinning him. 

"Careful, kitten," Peter purred. "Like I said before, I would just _love_ to show you how _experienced_ I am." Stiles overtaxed hormones went into overdrive. Like a bursting dam the scent of arousal and teenage angst flooded the room. Peter jerked back in surprise, then let out a sharp laugh. 

"Ah, so my kitten _does_ have a sex drive," Peter said in amusement. 

"Go away," Stiles whined, rolling onto his back and hiding his head behind his hands. Stupid werewolves and their noses. He had never felt more ashamed in his entire life, except maybe when getting caught in a tree with a buxom, brunette bombshell. 

He jolted when he felt a warm hand on his inner thigh. 

"Peter!" he yelped, dropping his hands. Peter was looking down at him with the gaze of a trained predator. 

"You're cute," Peter said in a husky voice, leaning down to lick over the shell of Stiles ear. The warmth and wetness sent a shiver down his spine. 

"St-stop," Stiles said with a blush, hugging himself but unwilling to pull away. His protest was only half-hearted. 

"Alright," Peter pulled his hand away and straightened up. 

"Wait, what?" Stiles blinked and sat up a little. "You're not supposed to stop!" Peter quirked a brow. "You're supposed to keep going!" It would be just like Peter to blue ball him after that. 

"I'm not a rapist, Stiles. You said 'stop' and so I stopped." 

"Well you weren't supposed too!" Peter quirked a brow. 

"You want me to ignore your wishes and molest you?" 

"Well . . . no, but," Stiles face flushed. "I want you to continue."

"If you insist," Peter chuckled and swung his legs over the humans. 

"Don't act like you aren't enjoying this, bastard." 

"I'm just doing what any loving owner would do, and taking care of their pets needs," Peter purred in a low voice next to Stiles ear. Stiles shuddered. 

Peter trailed his hand down Stiles abdomen, dipping it down into his pants. Stiles bit his lip and tensed. The hand found the base of his cock and started to rub, Stiles gasped as Peter grasped him in a firm hand. 

"Hnnh, Peter," he pleaded, keeping his eyes trained on the wolves. Peter smirked and rested his head against Stiles forehead, maintaining eye contact with him while he pressed his thumb to Stiles slit. Stiles moaned at the explosion of pleasure that jolted through his legs and up his chest. 

Peter continued to tease his wet tip with his thumb until it was nice and wet. Stiles eyes fluttered closed and he dug his nails into Peters shoulders. He didn't remember putting them there, but the only thing he could think about was how _good_ Peters hand felt as it stroked him up and down. 

"P-Peter, please," he cried. "Fuck me." 

"No, I don't think so," his voice was husky as his ministrations became faster. 

"Well why the fuck not?" Stiles breathed out, managing to find a flicker of anger in his blissed mind, "Y-you're already giving me a hand job, so if you're trying to protect my virtue or something-" 

"If I was worried about ruining your virtue, I wouldn't have ever touched you," Peter grunted, grinding himself against Stiles leg. "Hand jobs are one thing, but you're a virgin and-" 

"No, I'm not," Stiles tries to withhold the rapidly growing need to cum. He squinted one eye open to see Peter starring down at him with a devious look. His hand motions slowed to an almost uncomfortable level. Almost, but not quite.

"You're not a virgin?" he tilted his head to one side, voice low and calculating. Stiles shook his head, unable to find words. Peter removed his hand from Stiles pants. 

"Well . . . alright then. Get on your stomach," Stiles obediently rolled over, getting onto his knees without needing to be told. His first time had been with a girl, but as a teenager he'd seen enough porn to know where this was going. "You're not allowed to regret this later," Peter warned. 

"Why would I ever regret getting fucked?" Stiles rolled his eyes, wiggling his ass to encourage Peter to hurry up. 

"Stay still for a second, alright?" Stiles let out an impatient groan, dropping onto his elbows. He could hear Peter rummaging through the desk drawer beside them. A second later and a cold finger touched his anus. 

"Hey!" Stiles shouted, jumping. "That's cold as fuck." 

"Yes, and it'll keep your ass from being shredded, so _be still_ ," he warned. The finger pushed back in with a surprising amount of delicacy. More than Stiles thought his 'owner' was capable of. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine as Peter added a second finger; it was tight but not unpleasant.

 

"This is going to start to hurt a little, warn me if you want to stop," Stiles gritted his teeth as the third finger went in, pushing and stretching him to his limit. The cold was pushed to the back of his list of complaints. All were forgotten once Peters index finger rubbed over a certain spot. 

"O-oh, g-god," he tremored, arching his back. He heard Peter chuckle behind him.

"There it is. I think your ready now," Peter purred, placing his hands on Stiles hips and positioning him correctly. Stiles did his best to accommodate, wondering when Peter had time to take off his pants. 

"Mhm," Stiles braced himself as Peters cock found his entrance. It was much thicker, and much longer than the fingers had been, inching steadily inside of him. 

"Stay relaxed, it'll feel much better," Peter advised. He hated how cool and collected the other man sounded next to his own puffy, breaths. He could barely get the words out of his throat, let alone speak full sentences. 

"H-how can you be so calm?"

"I've just had more-" 

"E-experience, yeah, yeah, I get it." Stiles grunted when Peter started to fuck into him, slow at first, but picking up speed. His cock was already swollen and ready from the hand job, but he wanted to last as long as he could.

He felt Peters hot breath on the back of his neck as he continued to thrust. Despite what Peter had said, they were just as short and fast as Stiles own labored breathing. He heard a dark growling as Peter rubbed over his spot again. Stiles gasped and let out a mewling moan. 

"Fuck, Peter!" He grunted as Peters hand returned to his cock, pumping him hard and fast in time with his thrusts. 

He shuddered as the pressure became too much for him and he came onto Peters hand. He bit down onto the pillow to quite the sound of his increasingly vulgar moans. Peters head rested on his shoulder, he thrusted a few more times before he, too, came. 

They stayed together for a few more seconds, Peter breathing in his ear and Stiles waiting patiently for Peter to pull out. When he finally did Stiles collapsed onto the bed, rolling over onto his back.

"C'mon, kitten," Peter said, nuzzling his throat. "Lets go take a shower." Stiles closed his eyes, letting his breath catch back up with him. 

\----

Stiles felt like a teenager going on his first date. Admittedly, he hadn't any date before this one, but . . . 

Peter put a sandwich in front of him. They had stopped at some deli down the road from the used book store they liked to visit. Peter had ordered a book about druids and magic specifically for him. Things were starting to get almost unbareably domestic. 

Stiles kept wondering when Peter would turn on him, treat him with the same self righteous indignation he used with his family and clients alike, but that day never came, and the more Stiles pondered it the more he realized that from day one Peter had treated him differently. 

Having only known Stiles for a day he'd been welcomed into his bed, held him and comforted him until he stopped crying. He never once tried to force him to take pills, or sleep on his own. He'd always been there when Stiles needed him, and Stiles was beginning to feel something more. 

It was easier to say his feelings were based purely on lust, but having that particular need filled made him realize it wasn't just about being physical. 

He smiled his thanks and picked a piece of pickle off his sandwich. Peter sat across from him with his own and a cup of coffee. 

"You're being quiet again, kitten. Sad that no ones tried to pet you yet?" Peter asked, picking a french fry from Stiles plate and popping it into his mouth. They hadn't discussed having sex, the subsequent shower, or the repeated nightly sex in the days following. 

"God no," Stiles scoffed, picking up his sandwich in an awkward hold. He wished he'd chosen something a little less messy as he stuffed a mouthful into his cheeks. 

"You're getting sauce all over your shirt, pet," Peter said with an eye roll, handing the boy a napkin. The rest of his clothes had finally been moved into Peters room and were hung up in the closet next to his. The difference between light and dark colors was surprising when laid right out next to each other. 

"No, I'm not," Stiles argued, taking the napkin just in case. A quick check of his clothes revealed that he had, in fact, not gotten sauce all over him. 

"Oh, my mistake then," Peter shrugged. "I guess it's just here," he smirked and wiped his thumb over Stiles mouth, removing a small splattering of mayo. Stiles flicked his tongue out over where the condiment had been. 

"You know, you could have just told me," he pointed out, wiping the rest of his face with his napkin. Peter chuckled. 

"Yes, but then I wouldn't have gotten to touch you, would I?" That smirk was going to kill him someday, and he knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for lateness. I've been feeling sort of depressed lately and its making it hard to update.


	13. Appendix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides to throw Stiles a preemptive birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end-notes for chapter specific warnings.

Stiles shrugged when Peter asked for his birthday. Either he didn't remember, or it wasn't something he was willing to share. He was always concealing stupid things. The boy grinned and said if he wanted to give him presents he'd accept them on any day of the year. Peter batted him on the back of the head. 

December third seemed like a good enough date. The weather was unseasonably warm, and it spoke to Stiles character. Plus, it would mean he finally had a reason to look forward to the winter. 

"What's this for?" Stiles asked, starring suspiciously at the colorfully wrapped box, and then at the cake on the table. He'd spent most of the morning complaining about stomach pains Peter wasn't completely sure actually existed. He smelled fine, his temperature was good, and being 'sick' hadn't made him any less active than usual. 

“It's your birthday today,” Peter said, ruffling the humans hair. “Happy birthday, Stiles.” Stiles blinked in confusion. 

“No it isn't,” he said, examining the box in his arms, giving it a light shake. 

"I thought you said you didn't remember when it was?" Peter raised a brow at him. 

"I don't, but it would never have been on a Tuesday. Maybe a Thursday or a Friday but never a _Tuesday_. Tuesdays are so blech. Can I open my present?" he picked at one corner of the paper. 

"I don't think that's quite how births work, my dear. Presents are only for birthdays,” he made to snatch the box back but Stiles smacked his hand away. 

“Happy birthday to me then,” he beamed at Peter and ripped at the wrapping without awaiting approval. Peter humphed, but inwardly he smiled. 

"Star Wars?" His eyes lit up as he turned the box set over to read the back. "I thought you said it was stupid?" 

“Hmm, stupid might have been the wrong word,” he said, edging closer to the boy and resting a hand on his hip. “You made such a compelling argument, I thought we could watch it together and maybe I'd see what all the fuss is about?”

"Aw, I like it when you have a soul," Stiles grinned. 

"I've always had a soul; I have the _best_ soul. It's not my fault everyone else is so ignorant they can't see it," he rolled his eye. "More people should be like me." 

"If more people would be like you-" 

"I'd watch what you say, kitten," Peter threatened, growling playfully as he pulled Stiles towards him into a hug, his hands resting on his hips, "I can still return them, you know." Stiles hugged the DVDs to his chest. 

"Alright, alright," he chuckled. “Hey if we start watching them now we can have them finished before Laura comes tomorrow!” Peter grimaced. 

The trip to his families cabin was in three days, and so far Stiles was the only one of them excited for it. Peter missed his family; but three weeks with them was more than enough 'bonding time.' 

Plus, much as he'd loath to admit it he just didn't want to share Stiles with them. Stiles was _his_ , and they would make him _theirs_. The thought of his humans earthy scent getting muddled with his over-sized families made something in his heart clench tight. 

“Ooooor we can watch one now, and finish the rest of them while we're at Talias?” he bargained. Stiles snorted, abruptly pulling back. 

“Oh, I see. You don't want to watch Star Wars you just want an excuse not to spend time with your family,” he deduced correctly. 

“And what better excuse is there than taking care of my very particular pet?” Peter asked, giving a small shrug and pulling the human back to his side. Stiles rolled his eyes, and Peter felt a sliver of pride at the contemptuous look he gave. 

It only lasted for a second before the boys pupils involuntarily contracted and a look of pain crossed his face. He winced and dropped the boxes, grasping his right side. 

“Stiles?” Peters eyes flashed dangerously yellow at the humans outcry. “Are you alright?” 

“Y-yeah,” he breathed. “Just, my abdomen kinda hurt for a second.” 

“What kind of hurt?” Peter asked. He moved his hand over the boys stomach. Stiles gasped. 

“Don't touch there!” he snapped, yanking himself away from Peters hands. “The 'I don't have Wolf Fever' kind.” Stiles opened his mouth as if he were going to talk, but all he did was gasp. His eyes started to lose focus. He grasped his torso tightly and wavered on his feet. His nails were digging into his shirt. 

“Stiles?” Stiles!” Peter grasped onto his shoulders tightly before he fell. He lowered him to the ground as gently as he could. At some point his claws had sprung out. Peter grabbed his shoulders again and shook him lightly. Stiles eyes refocused on his face and he winced. 

He pried Stiles hands away from his side and lifted his shirt, seeing nothing. He pressed his hand down against the skin, feeling a large, bloated mass underneath. He swore. 

“Peter! Stop touching it! Please!” Stiles wheezed. “It hurts. Peter, please, stop.” He squinted his eyes open, there was red behind them. “It feels like my stomachs exploding.” His lips quivered as he spoke. 

His scent went from normal to acidic in less than a second. It burned at Peters nose and he had to keep himself from turning his head away. His heart skipped a beat. He felt Stiles forehead, which should have been cold, but instead burned just as warmly as his own supernaturally heated flesh. He swore. He hadn't been burning up like that a minute ago. 

“You have a fever, Stiles,” Peter grasped him and tried to pull him back up again. “I’m taking you to the doctor, now.” He dropped him when the human screamed as he was moved, doubling over onto himself and curling into a ball. Peter swore again. 

“It’s okay. It's okay. I’m going to make it better,” he promised. His hands trembled as black veins crept through them. He withdrew as much of it as he could. The boy took a dark, shuddering breath. 

“It’s not working Peter. It still _really_ hurts.” At least he was still responding, that was a good sign. Maybe, he might also be going into shock. 

"Fuck," Peter removed his hand. He could take some of the pain but whatever was causing it in the first place refused to heal. Whatever it was was deep enough within him that Peter couldn't help. _He couldn't help._

"Peter, what's happening?" the boy whimpered out, hugging himself tight. 

"I-I don't know, but it's going to be okay. Alright? You're fine. Just stay here for a second, I'll be right back." _He couldn't help._

Peter grabbed the phone off the counter top, dialing a number he knew by heart, grateful he hadn't blocked the number the hundreds of times he'd thought about it. His eyes never left Stiles. 

“Pe-” the other line started to say. 

"Talia?" Peters voice cracked as he spoke. "It's Peter; somethings wrong with Stiles. I need you to call Deaton. I need you to get here. I need you to get here _now._ "

\--------

Peter held Stiles on his lap the entire way to the tiny veterinarians office. Talia drove above the speed limit, casting worried glances at her brother and the feverish bundle in his arms, his breaths were coming out in pants. 

Peter poured all of his energy into the boy, into draining his pain, but all it served to do was quiet his gasps for a few minutes at a time. He was conscious but non-responsive. He could hear his heart rate fluttering as they sped into the parking lot of the clinic. Peter jumped out before Talia had even come to a complete stop. 

Deaton was already waiting inside with a cart. He laid Stiles down onto it as gently as he could. The boys fingers had to be forcibly removed from where they clung to his shirt. 

"What happened?" Deaton demanded. 

"We were fine. He said his stomach hurt, then he had a fever and his breathing was ragged. He almost threw up in the car, and his stomach feels strange." Deaton lifted Stiles shirt, pressing a hand down on his right side. Stiles cried out in pain. Peter had to force himself not to rip Deatons had off for hurting him. 

_It's okay. Deaton will fix him. It's okay. Deaton will fix him,_ he chanted over and over again in his mind. 

"It feels like his appendix. I need to open him up to be sure. You'll have to wait out here." 

"You're not cutting him open without me there," Peter snapped. Talia was at his side in a second. 

"If Deaton opens him up, and he's not already infected he'll _get infected_ ," she reasoned. Peter growled, but she was right. He couldn't stay with Stiles. _He couldn't protect him._

"He can't have Fever, he's been vaccinated." Deaton didn't look up as he stuck an IV into Stiles arm. Stiles twitched but made no noise. It was eery to hear him so silent and so unmoving. His eyes had dark bags underneath them. "I think he's been vaccinated, I didn't bring his papers." 

"If they were forged," Deatons voice remained steady and even. Peter longed to rip out his voice box. "The information on them probably was too." The ever rising panic clawed at Peters chest. If his human wasn't vaccinated Stiles would die either way. 

"Just fix him," Peter pleaded, unable to stop his eyes from burning yellow. 

"I'll do what I can," Deaton solemnly promised as he wheeled Stiles out of the room. Peter watched the doors swing shut behind him with condemnation. The last thing he saw was Stiles doe-eyes watching him. Peter howled. 

\----

Talia Hale waited her whole life to find some evidence that her brother had a soul; and now she had to watch it be ripped apart in front of her. Stiles had been in surgery for an hour without any updates, but maybe that was a good thing. 

"Why wouldn't they vaccinate him?" Peter said. It was the first thing he'd said since his pet had disappeared behind the double doors. His voice was rough. 

"They didn't care about him," she answered honestly. "If he died, his owner would just buy a new one." Peter snarled at the answer, digging his claws deeper into the bench. 

"He's not a toy; he can't be replaced." 

"I'm glad you care so much about him," Talia said softly, folding her hands neatly over her lap. 

"I'm not the heartless monster everyone thinks I am," he spat. "I _do_ care about things- people. I care about Stiles." He rested his head on his knees, the bench beside him had long claw marks raking down the sides. 

"I know. Do you love him?" she asked, dropping her voice. 

"What do you think?" condescension dripped like venom from his words. Talia hummed, needing no clarification.

\----

It wasn't for another thirty minutes that Deaton reentered the waiting room. Peter shot up from his chair, sniffing at the man and smelling only blood and death. His heart rate skyrocketed. 

“His appendix burst, there were complications-” Peter snarled, “but there's no reason he shouldn't fully recover. I think he's going to be fine.” Peter felt the breath he'd been holding whoosh from his chest. 

“Next time _lead_ with that,” he said, but had no energy to turn it into an angry snap. He dropped back against the chair, sighing in relief and rubbing his forehead.

"I'm glad to hear that," Talia smiled. "May we see him?" 

"He's resting right now, so be quiet." Deaton held the door open for them as they entered the room. 

\---

Stiles lay on the hospital bed, looking frighteningly small and fragile. His bright eyes were sunken and closed. His skin was translucent. His torso was wrapped in several layers of bandages, underneath which Peter could smell the pungent smell of blood and sickness. The only thing worse than having smelt him in the midst of a panic attack was seeing him just after surgery. Peter whimpered like a lost pup. 

Deaton promised he would wake soon and Peter could take him home after twenty-four hours. That was good, because if he had to wait any longer he'd kidnap Stiles from his bed and carry him home if he had to. 

Talia stayed by his side throughout the ordeal She tried to make conversation, asked him about Stiles hobbies, what they liked to do together, how Stiles was liking his new home, but Peter ignored her or gave short one-word answers. 

“Peter . . .?” She asked quietly. “You understand that someday Stiles is going to die, right?” Peter growled lowly in response. His eyes had not left the human since he’d been wheeled back into the room. “Maybe not today, but he is human, they don’t last very long. You should accept that and enjoy the time you have with him.” Peter growled again. 

“You could bite him.” Turning Stiles into a werewolf would grant them more time together, if he lived. After all he'd been through, how could he not? 

“It would be lethal. If the bite killed him could you live with that?” 

“I can live with a lot of things . . . but no, I couldn’t live with that,” Peter stroked his hands through Stiles hair, the boy wrinkled his nose but his eyes still hadn't opened yet. 

Peter hated being so delicate with him, because Stiles wasn’t supposed to be delicate. His body was frail but his mind was vibrant and strong and stubborn. 

\-----

Stiles did not wake up until long after Talia had gone. His eyes fluttered open, burning from the bright hospital lights that attacked his retinas. He tried sitting up but two Peters arms pinned him to the mattress. 

The bed he found himself on was not big enough for the teen let alone an adult wolf. To compensate he had moved one leg over his body and curled around him. His arms held him close in a loving embrace around his shoulders, away from the bandages that hugged his stomach. The bandages itched, but Stiles couldn't free his arms enough to scratch them. 

Peter was asleep. His breath was hot and even on curve of Stiles ear. The only sound in the room were the noises from the hospital equipment. Even if Stiles wanted to disrupt the silence he had no words with which to speak. His tongue – along with the rest of him – felt like lead and paper at the same time. He laid back, allowing the werewolf to envelope him. 

\--

Peter held his arms above his head in a manner both firm and gentle. He pushed Stiles shirt up to expose his stomach and the purpling surgical scar. Stiles winced and look away. He knew how much Peter had loved his milky white skin, and now it was permanently disfigured. He worried his lip and looked away.

“Why do you keep looking at it?” Peter blinked and looked up at him. It was as though he’d been pulled out of deep thought. They were waiting for Deaton to discharge him. It was only a ruptured appendix, a very complicated and unsightly ruptured appendix, but a ruptured appendix all the same. It made sense after everything else in his life that his body would betray him next. 

He still had Peter though, and that's what mattered most to him. 

“I almost lost you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. He’d been avoiding the thought. He could have died, and the only one left to remember him would be Peter, and possibly his parents who he could barely remember, and might be dead themselves. 

“Listen to me,” Peter let go of his arms to turn his chin so they were staring into each other's eyes. “I will never let you go. You are mine. If your heart stopped beating, I would pump it myself.” The words were rough and raw, and Stiles smiled because it was the best way Peter could love; in a rough and raw and possessive way. 

Peters hand moved to stiles neck, thumb brushing over the pulse, then it moved further over his chest. Stiles closed his eyes when the hand found its resting place directly over his heart. 

“Peter, I-I,” he let out a long exhale, unable to continue the sentence. He opened his eyes again. "I think-" 

“Hm?” Peters eyes flicked back to his. “You what?” 

“I . . . never mind,” a look of concern crossed Peters face, but instead of commenting he rubbed a circle over Stiles stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles appendix bursts and he is rushed to the hospital. He lives!
> 
> I only have one chapter written after this, and then the next part will either be in its own work, or just continue on where this one leaves off. I'm not sure though, because it has to do more with Stiles and Peter interacting with people outside of each other. 
> 
> Thanks for all the nice comments last time I posted; they helped tremendously.


	14. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Stiles appendix exploding.

_”As his registered physician, is there anything else I should know? More specifically, about the bruises on his hips?” Peter stilled the hand that ran through Stiles hair at a slow pace. The boy had fallen back asleep again underneath the stiff hospital blankets._

_“I suppose there are things I could tell you. I'm not sure if I _should_ , though. It wasn't nonconsenual, he's over eighteen.” Deaton was quiet for a minute, scribbling something down on his notepad._

_“It's important that I have his medical history, in case something like this ever happens again.” Peter growled at the thought, leaning back in his chair, barely convinced that Stiles wasn't about to melt out of existence the second he took his eyes off him. The doctor was right, but he didn't like sharing._

_“He's got . . . other kinds of health issues.”_

_“What kinds? Is he on medication for any of them?”_

_“Anxiety, insomnia, mostly. He has prescriptions, but he doesn't take them often. They make him feel 'dull' he says.” Deaton nodded. “Physically, up until this point he's been perfectly healthy.”_

_“Fax me a list of them, we’ll see what works and what doesn’t. Anything else I should know?” An image flashed in his mind of Stiles levitating books above his head. He'd seen the druid once do a similar trick. They were kindred spirits._

_“No, nothing.”_

\-----

Before he left Deaton gave him medicine and clear instructions on how to clean and disinfect the surgical wound. Peter remained poised by Stiles bed the entire time like a guard dog, snipping and snarling whenever the doctors hands could have been gentler. Stiles spent most of his time flitting in and out of confused sleep. His dulled eyes searched the room longingly each time he woke up until he found Peters face.

He took Stiles home while he was still half-dazed on painkillers, he just couldn't stand the sight of him lying there on the cot any longer. He wanted him back in his own bed, wearing his own clothes, with fresh bandages that didn't smell like sickness. 

The boy looked at him with an odd, suspicious look whenever he was lucid enough to make them. It dawned on Peter halfway back to the house it wasn't the first time he'd been driven away like this. One of his hands gripped the steering while tighter, while the other reached over and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Stiles let his head fall back against the window, slumping down in his seat. But at least he looked somewhat appeased now. 

When he walked inside his home he was hit by the smell of lemon scented cleaning products, and a powerful air re-freshener. Talia must have been there and cleaned away the scent of Stiles illness. For once, he was grateful for his sisters overbalance. It was a good thing she had to wash away the smell; having even the faintest trace of dying in his home would have sent him immediately back into his half feral state. 

He gently led Stiles up the stairs and settled him down on the bed, pilling up pillows and extra blankets next to him. His skin was still cold, but Deaton had assured him a thousand times that that was normal, and he might not be back to his own self for at least another couple days, maybe a week if the antibiotics didn't kill the infection quick enough. 

He left Stiles for only a second as he returned to his office to drag his desk up the stairs and shove it against the wall, completely blocking the closet and halfway blocking the door. He didn't care. At least not at first. He didn't plan on leaving the humans side until he was completely healed.

Stiles normal personality returned after only a day. It was both a blessing, and a curse. 

His eye twitched when he heard a loud 'thunk' behind him. He sighed, and gave a very long, very suffering sigh. “Stop. Doing. That.”

“I was born to be free,” a weak voice rasped behind him. He turned to see Stiles face planted on the ground with his nose in the floor, thankfully a thick blanket still protectively intertwined his limbs, 

“If you rupture your stitches I’m not taking you to the hospital.” 

“We both know you will take me to the hospital.” Stiles lifted his head and wiggled onto his good side. His numerous escape attempts from the confines of the bed all ended in similar fates. At least he had the common sense to not land on his bad side, and use the blanket to break his fall. 

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I let you fall off that roof,” Peter tutted. He stood from his chair and helped Stiles right himself into a sitting position. His skin was warm now, cheeks flushed from the low-grade fever that still pumped through his body. Stiles shrugged. 

“You’d be spending Christmas with your family, not sitting here babysitting me.” Swiftly, before he could complain Peter lifted him and laid him back down onto the bed. “Are you mad? That you're missing it because of me?” he asked with feigned nonchalance. 

“No, I _love_ that I'm missing my families Christmas because of you.” He ruffled the boys hair. Stiles frowned. 

“But you only get to see them once a year!” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing as he turned his side. Peter pushed him back down again. 

“Don't strain your throat. I _choose_ to only see them once a year. But,” his eyes softened a little as Stiles resistance ceased and he let his head sink into the pillow, “if _you_ wanted to go, we still have time to get there.” It ocurred to him that Stiles might appreciate an annoying family dynamic. “It might not be too much fun while you're recovering though.” 

Stiles shook his head. “No, I don't care. I Just don't want you to feel like you're missing something because of me.” 

“I'd miss anything for you,” Peter shrugged, and Stiles heart fluttered. 

\-------

“What's wrong with you?” Peter asked. “You've been fidgeting since this morning. Stiles looked away from the window. Peter had gotten tired of rescuing him from the floor and decided to set him up in the library window instead with his books by his side. 

Stiles bit his lip and played with the hem of his sweater. His stomach fluttered and twisted in uneasy knots.

“I'm not sure,” he lied easily. Peter didn't seem convinced. He stopped typing at his computer and studied him for a long minute. “I'm just feeling restless, I think.” 

“If you're bored we can go outside.” Stiles nodded and yawned. He did feel awfully cooped up, spending most of the past few days sleeping. Peter easily scooped him up into his arms, blanket and all. At first he'd felt embarassed, being carried around like this, but now he sort of liked seeing the surly werewolf make efforts to accommodate him. Plus, it gave him an excuse to cuddle up to his chest. Not that he really needed one. 

“I want my pillow,” he mumbled childishly. 

“You won’t need it,” Stiles didn’t have the energy to argue, so he let it be and allowed himself to be carried. Peter set him down on the porch bench, positioning the human so his head rested against his thigh. Stiles yawned and pulled the blanket tighter around himself, shivering a little as the chill got to him, the December air slowly but surely fading into a Californian winter.

The two sat in silence for a while; Peter read while Stiles rested in a half-sleep. In his pensive state the boy thought of all Peter had done for him since they'd met. Peter held him during his panic attacks, warmed him when he got cold, and rushed him to the hospital when his appendix tried to kill him. All in the span of three months. 

“Peter?”

“What is it?” Peter looked down at his weakened pet. His eyes let on just a mild hint of concern. 

“I - think . . .” Stiles struggled for the right words. “I think I might . . . love you?”

“Is that what’s kept you so agitated these past couple of days?” His expression was unreadable. 

“Yes,” a pit grew in Stiles stomach when Peter did not immediately return the sentiment. 

“Deaton said you needed to avoid stress Stiles,” Peter tsk'd, taping the humans forehead

“Peter?” Stiles voice cracked, he clutched at his blanket, curling his knees inwards towards his chest. His whole body felt tense. His heart was sinking. Did Peter not love him back? Was he only protecting him because he was his pet? Maybe he wouldn’t want him anymore, now that-

“I love you too, you adorable idiot.” Stiles let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Peter ruffle his hair, a smile on his face as he did so.

“I love you, Peter,” he needed confirmation. “Peter?”

“I know, you just said that.” Stiles grunted, narrowing his eyes a little up at his owner. 

“Please, Peter, be normal. Just this once?”

“I love you too, Stiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the ending to part one. There's going to be more but it might take me a little while to get it out. Schools still going on for another 2 months and it makes it hard for me to write. Thanks for all the patience and nice comments n.n


	15. Brisk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura and Derek stop by to pick up Stiles for the holiday. Stiles is excited; Peter is less. This takes place one year after the previous chapter.

Derek liked the holidays. He liked when his whole pack was nearby, he liked when Laura came to visit, and he even liked when Peter made dry comments about the tastefulness of Talia's cooking and her corresponding looks. 

He wasn't sure whether or not he liked the brunette standing next to his uncle, giving him curious but not unfriendly looks from behind Peters back. Dereks memory told him the boys name was 'Stiles,' and that he was a teenager. He'd almost met him last Christmas, but the human was too ill to make the journey, and Peter stayed home to nurse him back to health. 

“Peter,” Laura beamed, pulling her uncle into a tight hug. She'd never been excited to see him before. Derek wondered if her new found enthusiasm was related to her love of Peter or the human behind him. The two hugged briefly despite her show of warmth, then she turned her attention to Stiles.

“Hello there,” she said softly. “I heard you're not feeling well.” Peter moved back into the house and Stiles gave a flickering smile. 

“M’okay,” Stiles said in a congested tone. Derek could smell the faint odor of sickness in the air. Derek had only smelled it once or twice in his life, but he never forgot just how awful something sickly smelled. “I just have a some allergies, I think I'll be fine.” As if in emphasize the human sneezed. 

Despite the obvious illness there was something more underlying bothering Derek. His scent just didn't seem . . . all that natural. It was artificial somehow in a way he couldn't quite place. His nostrils flared, but no matter how much he sniffed he just couldn't get at why it seemed so strange. At least he wouldn't be the one stuck in a stuffy car with him. Still, there was something about him that hit right in the center of uncanny valley. Derek squinted his eyes at the boy and took another sniff. He reminded him, somehow, of a clothing store mannequin. Not in his appearance, he was very much alive, twitching, blinking, _sneezing_ , but something just wasn't right. 

“You poor thing,” cooed Laura. She kept her face light and friendly, but Derek knew his sister well enough to know that her claws were just itching to steal the human out from underneath her uncle. Derek might have felt inclined to explain to her why that was a bad idea, if she hadn't insulted his music and dress choice the entire car ride from the Hale home to Peters. 

“He's not as bad as he sounds, he just wants attention,” Peter gruffed, turning on his heel and stalking towards the house. “By tomorrow his 'allergies' will be gone.” Stiles glowered at his masters back, both he and Laura followed the older were inside, and Derek, feeling awkward standing outside the home went after them. 

The living room was much the same as Derek remembered it. He cast a longing look out the doorway. All he wanted to do was shift already and run while the sun was still there to warm his fur as they climbed higher into the frozen mountains. He looked at the sun longingly, still high in the sky but setting. He made a mournful sound. Laura shot him a glare. 

“Do you have your things packed, Stiles?” she asked the human sweetly. Stiles nodded vigorously. 

Peter and Derek packed their bags into the trunk of Lauras car while Laura pestered the human. When they finished Peter reclaimed Stiles attention by putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“"Are you going to be okay?" It was the ninth time he'd asked since they started loading the trunk. Each trip into the home he'd interrupt the chattering pairs conversation to ask. Derek couldn't imagine how many times he must have asked before they got there, because Stiles absolutely reeked of Peters scent. 

"Yes, I'll have a pretty girl to take care of me," he flashed a bright smile at Laura, who smiled back at him. 

"I'll be gone three days, two at most. Are you sure you don't need me to stay with you?" his voice was not as light as his pets. There was an edge to it. 

Stiles waved him off. "Yes, yes, go have fun eating deer meat with your family." They were hiding something. Derek scowled and looked down upon the peculiar boy, who had somehow managed to be even more peculiar than his uncle. 

"Three days," he said again. "The snow might hold us up, the weather can be a bitch sometimes but-" 

“Peter, you're enabling me,” Stiles hummed. “Deaton said you shouldn't do that.” Peter grimaced. 

“I just want to be sure you're comfortable with this.” 

Stiles sighed dramatically. "I can't miss you if you don't leave," he whined, dropping his arms to his side in a gesture of mock defeat. 

Peter looked down at him for a moment. “Alright,” he conceded, looming over Stiles and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the top of his head. Stiles grumbled a noise of disapproval, but when Peter pulled back the tips of his ears were red. Peter gave his hair an affectionate ruffle. 

Lauras eyes widened. Derek almost choked on his own saliva. 

"What? He's my pet." Without another word Peter headed out the door. Following after him Derek shifted, and they began the long, much-needed run back to Talias house to meet up with the rest of their shifted pack mates. 

\--------

Stiles sweltered in the heat of the rolling car. At least it was making him sweat out some of the congestion clogging up his airways. He'd shed all of his layers, and even still Laura did not get the hint. But she was so polite and well meaning that he hadn't the heart to ask her to lower the heat once again; instead he suffered in silence, wiping some sweat from the back of his neck. 

All-in-all he liked Laura. She was the only person who could out-rant him at a moments notice, and she had volunteered to skip out on a family tradition just to drive him to him to her mothers home for Christmas. 

"Did your family have any humans before me?" he asked once Laura stopped talking to take a breath. The girl gave a sad sort of smile. 

"We had a cousin who was born human but . . . . ," she shrugged in the way people do to explain a tragedy they'd rather not go into. Stiles frowned. 

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright. He made it to fifteen- that's longer than most." She was right. Most human children born into werewolf families had an exceedingly high mortality rate, higher still than humans effected with Wolf Fever. Their mixed DNA just didn't merge well together. Stiles could sympathize with her loss. 

"I've been trying to adopt a human for a while, but," her voice wavered. "I don't think the Argents really want Hales adopting from them." Her smile left her eyes as she spoke, spreading her hands in a 'what can you do' manner Stiles frowned at the thought. It didn't seem fair that he had been passed from home to home when there were people like Laura, ready and willing and capable of opening their hearts and homes; and yet she had been denied. 

“Why won't they let you take care of someone?” he turned to look out the window, fidgeting with the cellphone in his hands. 

“Oh, one of the girls, Kate, tried to burn our house down after our cousin died. She seemed to think we killed him on purpose.” Her tone grew suddenly bitter in a way Stiles hadn't heard before. “She tried to hurt Derek.” 

“Oh, that's so awful.” Stiles frowned, unable to turn and look back at her. “All of it.” Laura gave a heavy sigh. 

“Yes, but, we found out before she could do anything. She's gone now.” Her voice turned lighter as she finished her sentence. “We're very happy to have you here with us, Stiles.” Stiles smiled and nodded, chancing a glance over at her face. Her eyes were on the road, her lips tight, but her hands relaxed. He didn't doubt her sentiment was genuine. 

He looked down at the cellphone in his hand. He'd only been away from Peter an hour but he could feel the itching of anxiety in the back of his brain. As they continued the drive he kept looking out of the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of wolves rustling around in the trees. He didn't see them, but Laura assured they were there and that made him feel a little better. 

He started typing into his phone, more as a reflex. 

_'I miss y-'_

“Who are you texting?” Laura asked, stealing a glance at him. 

“No one,” Stiles said, snapping the phone shut without hitting send. Peter wouldn't answer anyways. He knew for a fact his owners cellphone was in a black bag in the trunk. 

\----------------

“Woah, this house is fucking huge,” Stiles said as he starred wide-eyed at the sprawling cabin before them. The exterior was made entirely of logs, most of which were probably hand-cut. Laura pulled up just outside the door, the cars tires making a pleasant crunch in the snow. Stiles was appreciative of the heat once they got further up the mountain and the cold air started to infiltrate the car. 

Laura laughed at his swear, but she quickly reclaimed her near perfect smile and patted him on the back. 

“My grandparents built it by hand.” 

“Your grandparents must have had a lot of time on their hands,” he said. Laura laughed again. 

“They were very . . . active individuals.” She winked at him. “C'mon, I'll show you around.” 

The inside was just as massive as it looked. There was a huge common area, a large kitchen, an an over sized den that looked like it could hold at least fifty people comfortably. 

“My grandma always hoped we would have a large family,” she explained after Stiles commented on the size again. 

“A large family sounds nice,” Stiles agreed. 

“Well now you have one too,” she said, giving him another overly warm smile. Stiles stomach knotted. The word 'family' twisted in his brain, and he shoved thoughts of his parents out of his mind. Then he thought of Peter, whom he was starting to consider 'family' in the proper way it was meant, but Peter wasn't there right now. 

“Can I see my room?” he asked, avoiding her comment altogether. Laura looked a little guilty, but she nodded and guided him upstairs. 

“This is your room, next door is Peters, and next to him is Derek.” 

“Oh,” Stiles hesitated. “Peter and I aren't together?” He shouldn't have been surprised but he was. He knew the relatives were not aware of their relationship, but it still sort of hurt. 

“No,” Laura said with a laugh, then seeing Stiles expression she said, “do you, at your house-?” There was a look of disapproval on her face, which was likely directed at Peter and not at him. 

“No,” Stiles shook his head quickly. “We don't, I guess I just wasn't expecting such a large place?” He smiled politely and she dropped her guarded expression. A small part of him twisted with the thought that maybe there was a reason Peter concealed their relationship, other than – as he put it – wanting to keep him to himself.

Laura only nodded, not quite convinced but accepting of the answer. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“No, actually. I think I'd like to just rest for a bit. I don't have quite the stamina you do. Long car ride, ya know?” Laura nodded understandingly, and after making sure he knew where everything vital was located she left him to his own devices. 

Stiles stood in the empty hallway. He looked at his room, and then at Peters. He retreated inside of Peters. 

He pressed his back against the door as he shut it, sliding down onto his knees. He pulled out his cellphone again. He looked at the half finished message, and found it too bare. He started writing a very detailed summary of his car ride with Laura, their tour of the house, and his subsequent exhaustion with all that had happened. 

He knew Peter wouldn't answer. A second after sending the message he heard a 'ping' sound from inside Peters bag, indicating the text was received. It made him feel just a little bit better though, to pretend that they were still communicating. _I can handle this._ He thought to himself. _I can handle this._


	16. Backtrack

Derek snarled, scraping his foot in the dirt. He lowered his head and let out a roar, lunging at the larger wolf in front of him. The larger wolf snarled back, easily stepping out of the way of his charge and sinking his teeth into Dereks shoulder. Derek grasped onto his attackers flank with his own teeth and kicked out at him with his claws. 

A third growling form stepped into his line of sight. A much bigger, much stronger form. Derek released Peter and stepped away. Peter turned his head to see who'd interrupted them. Talia watched with burning red eyes. She cast her glance over their panting but uninjured bodies. The only wound between them was a small cut on Dereks left front paw, which he'd caused himself by stepping on a sharp rock. Satisfied, she turned from them and allowed the two to return to their bout. 

Peter turned back to Derek and let out another taunting snarl. He braced himself for another charge. Derek hesitated. 

When they'd been close together, his nose pressed directly against Peters skin he smelled something, something that shouldn't have been there. It reminded him of the strange, artificial scent of the human boy, but this was more genuine than that. It was . . . more real, somehow. That scent was deeply ingrained into his hair and skin, almost in his very essence. He smelt like he spent an entire year with the boy practically glued to his side. 

“What's wrong with you?” Peter asked with a raised brown when he noticed Derek just standing there, watching him. 

“You smell funny,” Derek said while wrinkling his nose. The smell wasn't exactly bad but it was certainly different. Peter didn't smell like the uncle he once knew anymore. 

“We've all been rolling around in the same mud, dear nephew.” He rolled his eyes, a trait that he'd passed on to most of his family members. 

“No, I mean you smell . . . “ he struggled to find his wording under Peters scrutinizing gaze, “you smell . . . like . . . “

“Who do I smell like, Derek?” Peters eyes were calm. Unnaturally so. 

“Nevermind.” 

\----------------

Stiles eyes popped open with a start. This wasn't his bed. This wasn't his home. This wasn't his blanket. He reached over. Peter was gone. The bed was empty. The bed was cold. He was in some place new, unfamiliar, strange. He wanted to scream but his airway was suffocatingly thin. He rasped for breath. 

The light above him flicked on. Stiles clenched his eyes shut and drew up his arms to protect himself from it. 

“Stiles? What's wrong?” It was a womans voice, faintly familiar. He felt her hand on his shoulder. He recoiled from her touch. 

“Go away!” he shouted, still covering his eyes with his hands. “Where's Peter?” The sheets he lay on top of were not the soft, grey ones he shared with the wolf; the blanket was too fluffy and too unused to be theirs. 

“He's with Derek,” he blinked, and lowered his hands by a minuet amount. _Derek._ Right, Derek. Derek and Peter were in the woods. It was Christmas, he was with his family and Stiles was here waiting for him to get back. He was coming back. He would be back. Stiles opened his eyes completely and dropped his hands. He was embarrassed to find small drops of wetness along his fingertips. When he blinked no tears escaped, but his water-line was coated with the threat of their prescence. 

Laura was crouched down by the bed, watching him with evident concern. Her hands fluttered over him, hesitant to touch him but longing to do so. She wore a long nightshirt that hung just above her knees, and pajama bottoms that covered her feet. Stiles took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Next to him on the bed was one of Peters jackets and the grey throw blanket he'd claimed as his own since his first day in their house. 

“Are you okay?” Laura asked softly. Her hand finally made contact with his shoulders and she gave him a reassuring squeeze. 

“Y-yeah,” his voice cracked as he took another shuddering breath. “I just had a nightmare, that's all.” But the nightmare had only begun when he realized he wasn't in his own bed. “Peter's coming back?” He needed to recheck. He grabbed the blanket and pulled it onto his lap. 

“Yes, Peters coming back.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, or the next day.” 

“Tomorrow, or the next day.” Stiles repeated. Soon, very soon, Peter would be back. He took another deep breath, and remembered what Deaton had told him, _when you start to panic I want you to acknowledge it; don't hide that you're upset. Take a very deep breath through your nose, hold it, and slowly count down from five. When you get to one breath out through your mouth._

He held his breath, counted, and breathed out. As he exhaled the muscles he hadn't knowingly tensed relaxed themselves; his toes and fingers started to uncurl. 

Laura softly asked once his breathing exercise was finished, “do you want to talk about it?” 

“About what?” Stiles looked from her face down to the hem of his sleeve. He started picking at a well-worn corner. 

“Your nightmare?”

“Oh,” Stiles bit his lip. “Honestly? Not really. I kinda just want to go back to bed.” Laura nodded sympathetically, standing up from her crouched position. 

“I don't want to just leave you here. Do you want to go downstairs and watch TV for a bit? I can make you a hot chocolate,” she extended a hand with a sullen smile. Stiles looked at it. 

“I'm not a little kid, Laura.” He said with a tone that may have been more rough than necessary. He just didn't need to be patronized; he'd had enough of that for a life time. 

“I know that,” Laura said, her smile weakening just a bit. “Just because you're not a kid doesn't mean you can't like hot chocolate,” then, after a moments hesitation she offered, “it always makes me feel better when I'm upset?” She kept her hand outstretched. Stiles hesitated, and then grasped it firmly, letting the shewolf pull him up. 

“Okay,” he said, returning her smile as best he could. 

Laura would have made a good mother, Stiles decided. She was kind, patient, calm, at least that was the impression she left. It didn't seem fair that he'd had so many horrible 'owners' who thought of him as little more than a house pet, while Laura was still patiently waiting to open her home to someone who'd been just like him. 

He'd woken up on the sofa, a discarded cup of hot chocolate on the end table near his head. Laura was gone, but a warm fleece comforter had been placed over his body, the TV was still on and set to a low volume. A nature documentary played. He grimaced when he remembered how he'd gotten there. At least his nose wasn't stuffed up anymore. 

_Peter is coming back,_ he reminded himself. He had gotten much better at handling their forced separations. Peter could go to the store, or meet with one of his clients, and when he came back he would still be breathing at a normal pace. It was only when the trips were longer than a day that things became an issue. 

Peter always greeted him with a big hug when he came home. Deaton said they shouldn't do that, that they should treat his comings and goings as if they were routine, and eventually his mind would start to treat them that way. They tried, and failed. Peter was too driven to protect and comfort – especially after his illness, and Stiles was too self-indulgent to deny himself all the warmth and comfort the werewolf could provide. 

Fleeting, intrusive thoughts started to poke at the edge of his mind. He thought back to how Laura explained she wanted a human of her own to take care of, but had been denied. Peters constant reassurance that they _would_ see each other again, Dereks inquisitive looks and silent apprehension almost as if he knew or at least suspected something. Stiles had lived with Peter for over a year now, but he'd known Deucalion for three and that didn't stop him any when he finally decided to toss him away. 

“Stiles?” Laura asked, walking into the living room. Stiles looked back at her, interrupted from his internal self torment. She carried a mug with her that looked to contain tea. “Are you alright? I don't mean to be intrusive, but, you're heartrate-”

“I'm fine,” he was quick to dismiss. “Just worried, you know?” Laura nodded. 

“Yeah,” she said. “But they've taken this trip before, and I'm confident they'll get here soon.” Her smile was as reassuring as a smile could be, but it was of little help. 

“I don't understand why it takes so long,” Stiles drew his legs up to his chest. “If we drove here in one day, and they can run like . . . forty-five miles per hour, then why does it take them three days to get here?” 

“The trip isn't about getting here,” Laura said, setting her mug down and sitting beside him at the window. “It's about pack bonding, being together, hunting together. It's a very unifying experience.” That was a very logical answer, Stiles could accept it as such, but his mind rarely followed patterns of what was _logical_ and what was not. 

“Do you wish you were with them?” He asked. He felt a small pang of guilt, it was his fault Laura wasn't with the rest of her family, and he felt bad about it. Even if she had insisted on taking him, she probably hadn't realized it would mean at least two days being trapped with a neurotic human. 

“No,” Laura shook her head. “Pack bonding means _all_ pack mates bond,” she slung her arm around his shoulder in a very big-sisterly gesture. Stiles frown couldn't help but break into a grin. 

“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Laura turned her head to one side and smiled. Her brown hair draped over her shoulder. 

“Of course you can.” 

“Why do you and Derek keep . . . starring at me?” he asked, averting his gaze. “Like _really_ starring?” 

“Oh,” Laura seemed surprised. “Uh, well, it's just that . . .” in his periphery he saw her place her hand on the back of her neck. “You sort of . . . smell?” 

“What?” he turned back to her. “But I took a shower like four minutes ago! How can I smell?”

“No,” she shook her head quickly. “Not like that. You smell of Peter. You reek of him actually. It's a little . . . jarring? It's like he rubbed all over you.”

“Oh,” Stiles eyes widdened. It made sense. He'd never been around other wolves long enough for any of them to make a point about it, but sometimes when he and Peter were out in public the other weres would look at them, curiously, but not quite as intrusive as the way the Hale children did. He'd noticed a drastically sharp decline in the number of people willing to come up and ask to pet him. 

“That's why I was concerned when you asked me about your rooms yesterday, I thought maybe he actually had rubbed all over you.” Laura said it with a laugh, her laugh was cut off when Stiles own was only a little half-hearted in response. 

“He doesn't, does he?” she asked seriously. 

“No!” Stiles was quick to say. If Peter hadn't revealed there secret, he wasn't about to either. “No, he's just a little possessive sometimes. You know?” Laura nodded, only half buying his excuse. 

\------------

The pair walked down the snowy slopes of the Hale property. Laura made an effort to not make Stiles feel as though he were slowing them down, even if it was quite obvious that he was. 

“Omph,” he grunted as he practically slid down the side of the hill. Laura played with a few strands of her hair as she watched the human struggling. Her fingers were tight with the desire to grab him by the wrist and drag him back inside the home. 

“We can always go back, you know,” she said, pulling her hat a little further down to cover her ears. 

“No way! Stiles shook his head and steadied himself. He resented not bringing any snow boots with him, but then, why would he have ever needed them before? Deucalion and he lived in an area that got one inch at most, and aside from the mountains California never got any. 

“Do you know how few adventures I get to go on? Ever since my appendix burst Peter won't let me out of his sight. Not that I'm not grateful, but, _adventure_ Laura!” 

“I'm not sure wandering through the mountain really constitutes an adventure.” The skepticism was prominent in her eyes. 

“Not for you, maybe, but for me this is untapped wilderness! New surprises waiting around every corner, a virtual smorgasbord of – AH!” he shouted as he slipped on a rock. Laura caught his elbow before he hit the ground. He let out a breath of relief.   
“-of danger and excitement?” Stiles weakly smiled as Laura helped him back onto his feet. 

“Maybe this is too much adventure for you?” she asked warily. “Maybe we start with something simple; like walking down the hallway, then down the staircase, and then-” 

“There's no such thing as too much adventure.” He pulled away from her arm and continued his awkward climb down the hill, using the trees as supports. Laura followed, ready to catch him if he fell again. “Where's this path leading to anyways?” It hadn't been maintained in quite some time, but the ground they were walking on had quite clearly been a trail to somewhere at some point.

“It's sort of like a border crossing? It's a safe passage through our territory, so other weres can get to their families without trouble.”

“So we might see other werewolves out here?” Laura shook her head. 

“I doubt it. Hardly any come this way anymore.” They walked a little ways further until they came to a frozen brook. The snow and ice reclaimed the water and turned it into a precarious bridge from one side of the forest to the other. Stiles tapped the ice with his foot. 

“Be careful,” Laura warned. Stiles stepped back from the ice. Even he wasn't stupid enough to risk getting wet out in the middle of the woods, covered in snow, and chilled to his bones. He was reminded of something Ennis had said and started kicking up snow around the creek. 

Laura watched him kick the snow around the embankment with a curious expression. “What are you looking for?”

“A rock,” he said simply enough. “It has to be smooth and flat. Aha,” he said, picking up a black stone settled in the snow. He used it to make three long etch marks into the exposed wood of an old tree by the creeks edge. When he finished he stepped back. They looked like claw marks. 

“What did you do that for?” She approached the carvings he'd made in the tree and drew out her claws, comparing the ones Stiles made with the ones her own nails would make. Her nails fit perfectly in the grooves as she dragged it down the wood. 

“My friend Ennis showed me how to do that. He said that's how you signal someone if you get lost.” Stiles felt a little bit of pride, and a little bit of pain. Ennis would have been proud too. He would have slammed him on the back with a forceful smack, and Stiles would have complained. 

Laura looked back at him, her perfect lips contorting into a perfect frown. “Are you feeling lost, Stiles?” 

“Well, if I am you're a pretty bad guide.” Laura didn't return his grin.


	17. Belonging

Stiles starred up at the sky, watching the moon slowly encroach upon the ground. The tea in his mug had long since gone cold. 

He hadn't slept all night, not that he'd been trying. He couldn't have a nightmare if he didn't dream, and he couldn't dream if he didn't sleep. The only light in the living room came from moon as it shone, heavy and bright in the sky. He was comforted only minutely by the thought that Peter was awake as well, watching the very same moon. 

Stiles winced as the hall light turned on, assaulting his retinas with yellow fluorescence. He squeezed his lids shut tight and made a displeased noise.

“Stiles?” Laura groggily muttered from somewhere behind him. “What's wrong?” he heard her footsteps pattering towards him and he opened his eyes, sighing. This situation was becoming routine for them. 

“Nothings wrong,” he lied. “Go back to sleep. I'm fine.” His own voice betrayed him as the words slurred together. 

“No, you're not.” She rubbed her eyes as she came into view. Once more she wore her long nightshirt over baggy pants. Her normally perfect hair curled up in odd places and she wore a look of unrest. “I can smell you all the way from my room. You're upset about something.” 

Stiles sighed. “I'm waiting.” 

“Waiting for what?” She asked, blinking away the sleep and sitting down next to him on the sofa. She let out a loud yawn before continuing. “You smell like you're waiting for the apocolypse.” 

“For Peter to come back,” he said, setting his mug of cold tea down on the table. 

“They won't come in the middle of the night,” she said, her eyes were still half-lidded. “You should go to sleep.” 

“No.” He shook his head. “I want to wait.” 

“Look, I know it's weird, having them out there in the middle of the night like this, but, they'll be fine. They've made the trip a hundred times before, and no ones ever gotten hurt. Plus, for once Peter actually has a reason to _want_ to come here.” 

“Are you sure about that?” Laura frowned. 

“What's that mean?” 

“Nothing,” he hummed. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up.” 

Laura eventually, reluctantly, went back to her own bedroom. Stiles stayed upright, starring out the window as the moon disappeared behind the trees and the sun took its place in the sky. His head lolled sleepily back against the couch but his eyes refused to shut. 

“Stiles? I made breakfast,” Laura called from the kitchen. Stiles blinked, taking a minute to process her words. 

“Huh? I'm not hungry.” The smell of pancakes made his mouth water, but he remained resolute in watching the forest, a stone set against the tides. Even if the tides only wanted to feed him. 

“Are you sure?” Laura prodded. She could undoubtedly hear his stomach rumbling. He heard the scrape of silverware on plates and the refrigerator opening. Then Laura was in front of him. He looked cautiously over the food she placed on his lap, without awaiting his approval. The pancakes were still hot from the pan, and she'd even taken the liberty of pouring a generous amount of syrup over the top. Next to the pancakes she set a pre-packaged fruit cup. He took the plate off his lap and set them on the table, peeling off the seal of his fruit cup instead. Laura was watching him. 

“Do you not like pancakes?” she asked. Stiles shrugged, digging his fork into the processed fruits. 

“They're okay, I guess,” he said as he speared a piece of pineapple. His last meal with Deucalion had also been breakfast food. He had made eggs, with much more cheese and salt than he usually let Stiles have. He should have more suspicious of it, way more suspicious of it. Then he said they were going on a trip and he never saw him again. It had been over a year, but the wounds still hurt. 

They ate silently for a while. His pancakes went cold on the table. 

“Stiles,” she struggled with her words. Stiles struggled to keep his eyes open. “Are you sure you're okay? You're acting odd.” 

“I think it's _odd_ that you really wanted a human, then suddenly Peter asks you to watch over me while he's on some trip with the rest of his family,” he said haughtily. 

“What are you talking about? My mom asked me to drive you here, not Peter.” 

“Oh, and isn't that just _so_ convenient for everyone.” He laughed. It did make perfect sense, didn't it? He really should have been more suspicious. 

“Peter just needed to spend some time with the pack, that's all.” She smiled at him, her perfect, practiced smile. Too practiced. He narrowed his eyes at her. 

“On a trip that could take a single day, but they've taken _three_. With people he only sees once a year?” 

“I told you; the trip is about bonding and-” Stiles scoffed. “Stiles I don't know what you're trying to get at, but-” he didn't hear the rest of her sentence as sleep finally over came him. 

 - - - - -- - - - -- - - - -

Peter felt anxious. Maybe it was just Stiles rubbing off on him, but this was the longest he and the boy had been apart since they'd met and three days felt like an astoundingly long time. Especially given Stiles history. As much as he – begrudgingly – enjoyed the time with his packmates he was eager to get back to his neurotic human.

He kept urging the pack to move quicker, faster, snow crunching under his feet as he went. He nipped at the heels of the wolves who lagged behind, causing groans of discontent. Even when the others complained that their feet were tired and they wanted to stop Peter was eager to keep moving. Talia didn't ask why, she already knew, and so she obliged him in his desire to keep moving so long as it were feasible. 

He reached the house around sunset, running a good few miles ahead of the rest of his pack. He'd told Stiles he'd be there in three days, he could only imagine the mental gymnastics the boys mind was putting him through as the day faded into night. 

He was unsurprised to see Laura pacing around near the forests edge. She saw him and ran to his side just as he shifted back to human. 

“Peter!” she said with relief. “I don't know what happened, Stiles got upset and locked himself in his room. He won't speak to me, I-” 

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Peter said, brushing past her. 

“Peter-?” 

“I'll take care of it. Just give us some space.” In her eyes were questions. Questions that would inevitably need to be asked, but not right in the moment. 

It wasn't hard to find Stiles. The scent of anxiety and depression was always the same, soured smell. He was fortunate enough not to have had to smell it in a very, very long time. He knew Stiles had panic attacks when he left the house on his own, but by the time he returned all the windows had been opened and only a faint lingering hung in the air. 

Stiles would smile and pretend he hadn't even noticed he was gone, but the wariness in his eyes betrayed him, and how easily he sunk into his hold when Peter hugged him tight. 

He found Stiles sitting in a fuming ball on the end of his bed. 

\- - - - - - --

“You lied to me!” Stiles accused as he slammed another chair against the floor. Peter didn't try to calm him. He leaned against the doorway and let him exert his anger on the furniture. The only thing he'd done was to drag the boy off to a quieter part of the house where his tantrum wouldn't be overheard. 

“You knew this was going to happen,” he offered. The remnants of the splintered chair floated back up to the ceiling. Stiles kept his eyes on the pieces of wood, not on the werewolf. 

“Yes!” he hissed. “I knew this would happen the second I met your stupid, snarking, face!” The chair dropped again and shattered into yet more pieces. The largest of the remaining bits floated again. 

“Don't break the furniture, Stiles,” he softly reprimanded. 

“Don't abandon things, _Peter!_ ” the boy said in a mocking, petulant way. 

“I didn't abandon you.”

“You just left me here! You left me here all by myself!” 

“Yes, Stiles, I did leave you, in the care of-” 

“So you admit it!” he shouted, tears forming in his eyes. They'd been threatening too for the last half hour, but now they spilled freely down his cheeks. 

“Yes,” the hovering wooden pieces jerked sharply in the air. “I admit that we're not always going to be in the same room together. Sometimes you and I are going to be apart, sometimes it might be longer than others. It's okay.” 

“No it isn't! You're trying to _leave_ -” 

“The first day I had you you jumped off my roof. Weeks after that you ran off into the forest. Was your intention to leave forever?” Stiles resolve wavered.

“That's different!” 

“No, it isn't. You know it isn't. It's okay for us to be in different places.” Whatever magic Stiles was using to batter the chair started to wane. The pieces dropped a good few inches before he managed to restrengthen his grip on them. Stiles lip trembled. 

“It's okay,” Peter said at last when the tears formed in his eyes. “It's okay, I'm here now.” He reached his arms out and Stiles folded into them like a piece of paper. He buried his face into his shirt and threw his arms around his neck. 

“I thought you left me,” Stiles mumbled against his chest. He could smell the salt from his tears staining his skin. Peter stroked the back of his head. 

“Of course not, you childish moron.” He let Stiles cry against him for a minute. Now that all the anger was gone pain was all that remained, and he needed to get it out of his system somehow. Peter gently rubbed his back and continued to stroke his hair while he let out all the tears he had to shed. 

“Hey, do you want to see something cool?” he asked when the sobs started to die down. Stiles looked up at him with wet eyes. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 

“Your kind of cool, or mine?” he asked. 

“Hm, both.” Stiles frown flickered into just a smidgen of a smile and he grasped Peters hand in his. 

“Okay,” he said.  
\- - - - - - - - – - - - - -

“I've already seen the den before,” he was unimpressed as Peter led him down into the den. It was a beautiful room, with its intricately carved banisters, and the painstakingly crafted fireplace; but he'd already seen it before with Laura. He wondered if he should tell Peter about how Laura had comforted him there the first night he'd been gone. He decided against it.

“Not like this,” Peter reassured. “Go sit down.” Stiles did, getting a nostalgic longing for a cup of hot chocolate. He knew he'd need to apologize to Laura later, if not for his panic attack than for yelling at her when she'd tried to help him. It wasn't her fault she'd been left out of the loop. 

Peter started the fire with a matchbox, shoving in a few outdated newspapers to stoke the flames. Stiles sighed. 

“I've seen the fire too. This is a pretty lame attempt at 'cool.'” Peter rolled his eyes. 

“Shut up. I'm not finished yet. We have to wait a second.” He waited with his hands clasped in his lap for whatever Peter wanted to show him. It still just looked like a den with a fire place. 

“Okay, now.” Peter said, shutting off the lights. Stiles blinked, looking around the dark room for whatever was supposed to be so intriguing. 

“This is very romantic Peter. Any other day, I'd so be down for it, but-” 

“No.” Peter scoffed, taking his place on the sofa next to him. He pulled Stiles to his chest. “Look up.” He cupped a finger under Stiles chin and tilted his head. Stiles let him, and his breath caught in his throat. 

“Woah, that _is_ cool,” he said when he regained his breath. The intricately carved designs above the fire that seemed random at first cast shadows on the wall. He could make out a bear, and a wolf, something that may have been a stag or a deer. He watched the walls and the ceiling, the way the animals moved when the flames waxed and waned was hypnotic. Peter rubbed his back and coaxed him into laying down fully against his chest. He took a deep breath. 

“Sorry I smashed your chair.” Peter shrugged. 

“It's just a chair.” 

“I love you, Peter.” 

“I love you too, Stiles.”


	18. Benevolent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles get some much needed cuddle time. I choose to believe that the pre-fire Hale family was absolutely massive.

A large, intricately carved balcony overlooked the cozy den, with its fireplace large enough for the children to roast marshmellows on, and the Christmas tree they'd chosen the previous year stuffed into the corner. The den was only accessibe by a red wood spiral staircase. Talia Hale loved that balcony and it's den, and it was one of the many reasons she hosted all family gatherings here. It was from that balcony that her, her many children, and their cousins spied on the happily nesting couple, cuddling together on the sofa. 

Peter had one arm wrapped around Stiles waist, while his legs pinned the boy to the sofa. Stiles right arm lazily hung over the edg, his fingertips grazing the floor. The book he'd been reading was cast aside and forgotten. Over the two of them lay a red flannel blanket they'd stolen off the back of the sofa. 

Their silent observers had been watching for over thirty minutes. They had always suspected their was something more to Peter and Stiles strange relationship. The only one uninterested in viewing the affections between them was Derek, who'd said it was 'gross' and marched off. 

"I can smell them," Peter grumbled. His eyes remained shut. "It's bothering me." The words were whispered into Stiles ear, but the werewolves had no trouble hearing him. They suspected it was his intention. 

Stiles squinted one eye open, looking in the direction of the balcony. "I can kind of see them." His voice was the dry crack of someone who'd just awoken. 

He wiggled onto his back, forcing Peter to withdraw his legs from where they tangled around the his own. To accommodate Peter replaced his arms around the boys stomach. 

"I'll get rid of them for you," he nuzzled his humans hair with his nose, inhaling the scent of brunette hair and fire wood. “I'd eat every last one.” The children on the balcony were quick to beat their retreat, but the less threatenable adults stayed behind. 

"I think that'd put a damper on the rest of the holiday." Stiles gave a small wave to crowd, who sheepishly smiled and averted their eyes. A few conspicuously inspected the railing. 

\- -- - - - - - - - -- 

Peter needed the nap just as much as Stiles did. His scent had started to wash from his shoulders, and Peter wanted the chance to remark him. He didn't even care that there were a dozen or so eyes watching them from above as he did so. He let his fingers over Stiles shoulder down to his hip, then he repeated the motion again and again, until the scent covered him like the blanket they were using. 

Eventually the children started to return to their post above the balcony, and a few of the exceptionally brave ones made their way down the stairs to watch more closely. Talia was gratefully not among them. They feigned interest in the fire, or the books that lined the wall, but Peter knew what they were doing. When half of the observers filled the room the cuddling pair got to their well-rested feet and decided to vacate. Several of them nodded as the passed, as if they'd only just noticed the couples presence. 

The walked through the hallways, passing by more and more curious weres who reached out to scent them as they passed. Their hands grazed lightly over Stiles arm or the top of his head. Stiles didn't seem to mind, he looked pleased with all the unsolicited scenting, but Peter didn't like the way it wiped away his own.

Noticing the grimace on his owners face Stiles scent took on the artificial aroma he used for masking. All that was left was the very obvious trail Peter had made down his side and back. 

“Thank you,” Peter grumped. The wolves couldn't scent him if they couldn't smell him. 

As they passed along the hallway corridor Stiles spotted a small stack of childrens shoes piled by the door, still freshly wet with snow. Several high-pitched but inaudible voices could be heard behind it. 

“Are there lots of children here?” he asked with a hopeful look. 

“No, actually there's none. We've just got a lot of gnomes. My cousin Rachel married one.” 

“Woah, really?” Stiles grinned. “You have gnome cousins?” 

“No, you gullible moron. Yes, there are lots children here.” Peter ruffled his hairs playfully. 

“You're such an asshole,” he said with a roll of his eyes that made Peter proud. 

“Yes, but I'm the asshole who loves you.” Before Stiles could respond another voice interrupted them. 

“Oh, there you two are,” Laura said, appearing from around the corner. “I was looking all over for you.” Stiles shifted a little on his feet, biting his tongue. Peter put his hand down on the boys shoulder. Stiles knew he needed to apologize to her. 

“Derek, Cora, and I are going sledding, do you want to join us?” her question was exclusively directed at Stiles, and Peter knew it. He didn't care. Behind her Derek followed, hands stuck in his pocket and a scowl plastered on his face. He was looking at Stiles as though he wasn't quite sure what he was seeing. 

“Oh, that sounds really fun, actually,” Stiles said, then his grin faltered. “Oh, wait, I don't have any snow boots. My shoes are still pretty wet from the last time we went out.” He motioned towards his sock covered feet. 

“You can borrow some of Dereks,” Laura offered without asking her brother first. Dereks scowl intensified. He looked as though he thought 'sledding' was a euphemism for getting his teeth pulled.

“Do you want to go too, Peter?” Stiles asked, looking up at him hopefully. Peter grimaced. 

“I think this is one of those times where it's okay for us to be apart. You have fun though.” He took his hand off of Stiles and dropped it back down by his side. It felt too cold without the human underneath. 

“Derek, go find some snow boots for him,” she commanded. “Stiles, go see if any of his fit you.” Stiles seemed reluctant to go with Derek, but he nodded and followed him anyways. 

Awkwardly Derek reached out and gave the humans head a soft pat. Stiles left eye twitched. 

“Thank you,” the boy said in a flat-line, ducking out from under Dereks hand. “Very appreciated.” Peter chuckled as the two walked to the end of the hallway. 

Laura turned back to her uncle. Her expression changed, she stood a little straighter, pushing her long brunette hair behind her ear and darkening her gaze. 

“Do you want to explain what happened earlier?” 

“No. Not really.” 

“Peter, that boy was nearly in tears because he thought you abandoned him. Don't bullshit me.” 

“He wasn't like that because of anything I did.” Peter stayed relaxed, not giving in to her accusation. She could think whatever she wanted about him, but at the end of the day he was the one taking care of Stiles, not her. 

“So you're saying I did something to cause that?” her shining eyes narrowed into slits. 

“No, I don't think either of us did anything to him.” 

“So it just happens? People just cry and scream over _nothing_?”

“Tell you what, Laura, since you're in the mood to make guesses; why don't you tell me what's wrong with him? What is it your brain is telling you he has?” He stepped closer. “You've done all your research on humans in the adoption system. Maybe I'll even tell you if you're right.” 

“Well he's got just about the worst case of separation anxiety I've ever seen.” 

Peter scoffed. “Isn't that obvious though? You're going to have to try a little harder.” 

“It might have been obvious but you still didn't tell me about it! I just want to know what's wrong with him, Peter,” her eyes softened. “He was so upset.” 

“You're right, I didn't tell you about it but only because he asked me not too. If I told you anyways, then that's all the more evidence I didn't plan on coming back for him. When he first moved in with me I couldn't leave the house for a goddamn hour before he'd barricade himself in his room and wait for someone to come and take him away.” Laura looked away, back towards where Derek and Stiles had walked away. Peter followed her gaze. “He needs to trust me, Laura.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, speaking softly so they wouldn't be overheard. 

“He lost his parents too soon, and everyone else soon after that.” Silence grew between them as Laura looked off to the side. 

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked quietly. 

Peter took another second to respond. “Eventually, yes. Hes very-” 

“I want my boots back when he's done with them!” Derek shouted, appearing around the corner. Stiles followed behind him, redressed in a blue coat and boots. The insulated jacket fit him well enough, but it left an awful, stagnant scent of Dereks to intertwine freely with Stiles own artificially created one. Peter was only placated by the fresh markings of him on the boys throat, hips, and shoulders. He was sure the other wolves could sense it too, but they were smart enough not to comment.

“We'll continue this conversation later,” Laura said seriously. 

“C'mooon!” Stiles whined. “I want to goooo! What if all the snow melts?” 

“The snow isn't going to melt,” Derek told the human, borderline indignant. They made an odd pair, standing next to each other, each just as surly in their own way. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Dragging the sled behind him Derek kept his eyes solidly on the humans back. He was chatting nonchalantly to Cora about their relatives, what kind of person Peter was at home, and whether or not Stiles had any embarassing secrets to share about him. Stiles laughed and shook his head, saying he rather valued his tongue too much to share things like that. Cora pouted at him and sighed. 

“Well, I suppose it's just nice to have another cousin my age.” Stiles heart stuttered a little as he agreed. They all pretended they didn't hear the little blip over 'cousin.' Derek furrowed his brow. He thought he imagined it the first day they met, but there _was_ something off about him. 

The walk up the hill took plenty of time now that they had to slow to the humans pace. Derek wouldn't have minded so much, except he felt like he was walking with a ghost. It smelled like he was walking with two people. Yet, there were three of them. He found himself walking closer and closer behind the boy, trying to get a wiff of him, until they finally bumped into each other. 

Stiles started and looked up at him. His eyes were wide and brown, like a cats. Like a sneaky, mischievous cat, trying to look innocent. Even being just inches away, Derek still couldn't smell him. 

“Oh, hey there.” Stiles took a step back. 

Derek reached a hand up and gave him another few pats on the head. Stiles blinked. 

“Oh, no, thank you. One pat was enough. Oh, nope, you're still going. That's fine. No really. Okay, it's starting to hurt now.” Derek pulled his hand back when he smelled the soft, subtle scent of pain emit from the human. So he did carry a scent. Stiles rubbed his head and winced, stepping back a little. 

“Derek!” Laura said, giving her brother a reproachful look.

“I think that's enough petting for me for the year. Thank you. Please let everyone know that I'm no longer excepting pets from non-mittened hands.” Derek shrugged. As soon as Stiles turned his back he smelled his hand. There was still no scent of him. 

They laid the sled down at the topmost point of the hill. Laura, Cora, and Stiles all climbed on, with Stiles in the back and Cora in the middle. Derek much would have preferred Stiles sitting in front of his sisters, rather than behind, but he couldn't argue with Lauras logic that Stiles was the most likely to get hurt if they ran into something.

Derek braced against the sled and got ready to push. 

“Wait, wait!” he heard a muffled, but high-pitched voice squeal behind him. There was a gentle tugging on his sleeve. Derek looked down and saw a blue-eyed child, completely wrapped from head-to-toe in a snow suit. His black bangs poked out from underneath his hat. Behind him stood five or so other children, their own sled sitting stuck in the snow. Each of them were covered up to their knees in the white substance. 

“Jacks not strong enough to push!” One of them whined. The one called Jack glared at her. 

“No! The sleds just stuck!” Turning back to Derek he implored. “Push us first, push us first!” The others shouted their agreement. Dereks eyes softened. He scooped up the brunette child and tucked him under his arm like a football, grinning. The boy shrieked and kicked wildly, before he was plopped down onto the sled with his friends. 

“Hold on tight,” he said, winking at them. The children braced themselves and clung to each other like a little mess of monkeys. Derek took several steps back, then dashed forward and slammed into the back of their sled. The sled sped off, the children squealing and shrieking in delight.

“He's not going to push us that fast, is he?” he heard Stiles whisper into Coras ear quietly. Cora looked back at him and smirked. 

“Hold on tight.” 

For the rest of the day he spent most of his time alternating between pushing the children, and pushing his siblings and Stiles. Stiles, unsurprisingly, was the first one to get tired, and the first one to start lagging up the hill on their return climb. 

“Ugh. I can't-” _wheeze_ , “-feel my-” another wheeze “-legs!” 

Laura turned back to him. “Do you want to stop? Are you okay?” Stiles waved his hand. 

“No, no.” Stiles wheezed some more, then unceremoniously flopped himself down onto the snow, wincing as he landed on his side. “It's too late for me! Just leave me here to die.” Cora rolled her eyes. 

“C'moooon!” she complained, grabbing him by his feet. “You're just being dramatic!”

“Ow! Wait!” Stiles flailed his arms and tried to flip himself back onto his stomach. “Okay! Stop- I'll get up! Stop _pulling me_!” Cora grinned, and continued to drag him the rest of the way up the hill by his feet. “Lauuraaaaa! Dereeeeek! Heeeelp!” He wailed. They both pretended not to hear him. 

\-- - - - - -- - -- - - -- -- - -

A few hours passed and Peter heard nothing of Stiles. After debating whether or not he sounded like a concerned soccer mom, he shot off a brief text. 

_Still sledding?_ The response came back in less than thirty seconds. 

_Yes! Snow is great! More snow! Boo global warming! More! Want me to come back?_

_Always, but have fun with the brats. Don't get frostbite._

_My legs are broken. Come join us!_ Peter didn't respond. He laid down on the bed and pulled up his book, content to spend a couple of quiet hours by himself. With Stiles in his life, those moments had become scarce. They were going to remain scarce, as forty minutes later the bedroom door banged open. 

“I hate the snow!” Stiles announced loudly. His clothes were dripping wet, the top of his head still sported snowflakes. He shivered and pulled off his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door. 

“What happened?” Peter sighed. 

“Derek drove us into a snowbank,” Stiles huffed. “I think he did it on purpose. He kept sniffing at me. Then he got all confused looking and pushed us right into a mound of the stuff! I'm a Stiles-scicle.” Peter rose to his feet and went to the humans side, helping him pull of his wet T-shirt. 

“Dereks not smart enough to do something like that.” Peter said, wrapping his arms around the frozen humans torso. 

“Fuck you are cold!” He hissed, pulling his arms back instantly. Stiles whined. 

“Take a shower with me?” he asked, batting his cinnamon eyes. Peter considered the request. 

“I suppose I could. For the sake of melting my Stiles-scicle.” Stiles grinned behind another shiver and shed the rest of his water logged clothes on the floor. Peter dragged him into the bathroom a second later. 

“You do look pretty cute when you melt.” He complimented, pushing Stiles into the shower. 

Under the waters heat Stiles skin changed from pale to pink, his fingers going from plum red to deep scarlet. Peter growled his approval, leaning his head down to nose at the humans slender throat. Stiles leaned back into his touch, letting the hot water drip down his back onto his feet. Peter licked along his jugular line, growling as a soft groan escaped the humans throat. He forced Stiles back against the tiled wall, taking his place underneath the shower head. Stiles spread his legs. 

A forceful knock interrupted them. Peter snarled. 

“Ignore it,” he ordered. Stiles had no issue complying as he wrapped his arms around the werewolf.

“I want my snow boots back!” Derek demanded from behind the bedroom door. Peter rolled his eyes. 

“A little busy right now!” he shouted. 

“I don't care! Just tell me where they are.” 

“Oh my god!” Stiles rolled his eyes. They heard the sound of the door opening. “They're by the door, Jesus! Remind me to interrupt next time you shower!” 

“Wait, are you both-? Gross!” Derek slammed the door behind him. Peter snickered and turned back to his flushed love. 

“I'm still cold,” Stiles said, pressing his body up to Peters. Peter laid his hands on his waist and gripped them tight. 

“Let's warm you up then, hm?” Peter smirked.


	19. Backlash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets more Hales. I chose to believe the family is absolutely massive.

No matter how many of them Stiles saw, the Hale family just seemed to keep growing and growing. They flooded downstairs in droves, chatting casually with their relatives. Dinner time was chaotic, trying to find enough plates and silverware for everyone, then making sure they could all find a place to sit. They didn't even bother with the dinning room table, there certainly wasn't enough room for everyone, but no one seemed to mind. They were using the table to serve the food anyways. 

The younger kids sat cross-legged on the floor, while the adults took up space wherever they could find it. Some sat on the stairs, others on sofas, and just a couple dragged some chairs in from the dining room. Stiles and Peter boggarted the loveseat which had been pushed against the wall to make more room. Stiles lay with his head against Peters shoulders, his food sitting on his lap. He thought being surrounded by a large family would make him feel more at home, but instead his chest panged with longing for people whos faces were obscured in his memory.

“Who actually made all of this?” he asked. Peter shrugged, picking a carrot off of Stiles plate and popping it into his mouth. 

“Whoever wanted to. It's not assigned or anything. Somehow there's always enough volunteers to feed everyone.”

“You're family is huge.” Stiles observed. Laura, Derek, and Cora all nestled next to the christmas tree, sharing one plate between them. Cora growled when Laura picked up the last peice of chicken. 

“Yes, it is,” Peter said pridefully. Despite all the scenting Stiles recieved not a single werewolf approached him while he sat next to Peter. It was almost a little unnerving. A few of the relatives looked over and would smile and wave at him. They looked like they might have wanted to come and say hi, but as soon as Stiles started to wave back Peter would huff and his chest would rumble in a low growl. It wasn't hard to guess why they were keeping their distance. Laura made a show of running her hand over Stiles hair as she passed them, leaving what he could only guess was a very obvious scent mark. Peter scowled and ruffled his hair as soon as she was out of arm reach. 

“I'm going to put my plate away,” Stiles said, standing and holding his hand out for Peters. Peter reluctantly offered it up. 

“Try not to get too . . . smelly, on your way back.” Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think I can manage.” He grinned and walked off. Traversing the floor space to the kitchen was a lot more tedious than he thought; he kept having to step over werewolves, their rambunctious children, and miscelanious items that had found their way onto the floor. 

The kitchen wasn't much better. The countertop was a disaster zone of mashed potatos, turkey, ham, and several other assorted dishes he wasn't quite sure what to make of. He thought about wrapping them up and sticking them in the fridge, but he wasn't sure they would all _fit_. Seeing the wolves ravenious appetites he couldn't be sure they wouldn't be coming back for seconds either.

He settled for dropping his and Peters plates in the sink and let the water run over them. It felt strange to be back again in a family environment. It was different when things were just him and Peter, it was solitary, comfortable. Cora kept referring to him as _cousin_ Stiles, even Laura made a point of calling him family. It just didn't sit right with him. Watching them all have dinner together, conversing with each other, he got the painfully familiar feeling that it would all soon be taken away. 

Lost in his own thoughts he failed to notice the lone figure approaching him from behind. 

“Stiles?” a womans voice asked, softly. It was enough to snap him out of his thoughts with a jump. Standing in front of him was a tall woman, she had the ghosting features of Laura, Derek, and Cora. Her mouth turned up in a small, apologetic smile. “I didn't mean to startle you.” Stiles blinked and considered her. 

“Talia?” he asked uncertainly. “Don't worry about startling me, it happens a lot,” he gave a nervous laugh and scratched the back of his neck. She flashed him a warm smile as perfect as her daughters. She looked very maternal, standing there with oven mitts on her hands and an apron tied around her waist. She wasn't at all like the person Peter had described. 

“That's me,” she said. “I hope Peter didn't lead you to believe I'm some sort of fire-breathing dragon.” 

“A scorpion, actually.” Stiles smiled back. “It's nice to finally meet you. You have a lovely home.” 

“Thank you. We've met before, but this is our first time meeting that you've been concious.” 

“Ah, right,” he said, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly. “Thanks for that, by the way. You're families nice. Really nice, actually. Nobodies asked if I want to play fetch,” he risked a joke. Talia laughed. 

“We've had humans among us before.” Her smile weakened a little and her cheery eyes went dark. Stiles remembered what Laura told him about her deceased human cousins. 

“Oh, right. Laura told me about that, I-I'm sorry.” 

She accepted the apology with a gentle nod. “I'm just happy you're here, and I'm glad you and Peter get along so well. He's not always the friendliest person,” Talia winked at him. “Still, if there's anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please mention it.” 

Stiles bit his lip. “Actually, there is something,” he shifted his weight on his feet. “I don't want to complain, because you've been so nice to me, and welcoming, but it's just that,” he thought over his words carefully. “Having me microchipped like a dog really isn't all that, well, it sort of made me feel like a dog. I kind of wished you had asked my permission first.” Talia frowned. “I get that I'm legally Peters housepet, but, I'd rather not be _treated_ like one, you know?” 

Talia starred at him. “I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.” 

“What?” Stiles raised a brow. ““You didn't tell Peter to get me microchipped?” 

Her eyes remained even, but her lips pursed together. “No, I didn't.” 

“And you didn't tell him to get the Hale crest tattooed on my arm? Something about Hale policy?” 

“No! I never, nor have I ever, said anything like that!” This time she was a little less composed, sounding equal parts horrified and confused. She placed her hand on her chest. 

“Oh,” Stiles gave a breathy laugh. “That makes me feel a lot better, thanks.” 

“I will be having a talk with him,” her eyes narrowed sharply. 

“You have the worst problem following directions,” Peter said lazily as he walked into the room, laying his arm across Stiles shoulders. Stiles stepped back and glared at him. “What?” he frowned when Stiles pulled away.

“Your sister here was just telling me that she never told you to have me microchipped; weird, huh?” Peter shrugged. 

“She's probably just getting senile in her old age.” Talia growled. Peter looked completely unrepetant as he plucked a peice of ham off the counter and chewed it. 

\------------------------------------------- 

“Peter.” The elder wolf closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he opened them slowly again. 

Laura stood in front of him, wearing her pajamas, a mug of tea in one hand. “Ready to continue our talk?” she said with a wry smile. 

“Once again, no.” Peter brushed past her. All he'd wanted was a glass of water. He should have just waited until morning. 

“I'm not trying to pry-” 

“Then don't. It's none of your business anyways. I explained all you needed to know.” 

“You said he lost his family. How did he lose them? What's so bad that could-” 

Peter sighed and rubbed his temple. “Not _now_. That kid wakes up alone and he'll wake up everyone. You should know that.” He narrowed his eyes at the she wolf. 

Laura remained resolute. “Then answer my question, and you can get back to him.” She took a sip of her mug, just as as sickly scent began to sour the air. 

“Goddammit,” Peter snarled. “Now see what you've done?” He shoved Laura roughly out of the way and ran up the stairs to his room. The scream sounded just as he threw the door open. He could hear the sound of several dozen feet pounding down the staircase towards them, and all the doors nearby opening with a force. 

Stiles sat up, his eyes wide with terror. The blanket had been cast off the bed and lay in a pile on the floor. The boys forehead glistened with sweat. His fists held onto the sheets so tightly his knuckled paled. He looked to Peter and nearly jumped into his arms, burrying his face in the crook of his neck. 

“It's okay, it's okay, you're alright,” Peter hushed, hugging the human close. Stiles clung to him like the world was made of water and he was drowning. He drug him back down onto the bed and settled him onto his lap, whispering soft, gentle words of reassurance. 

Several Hales watched from where they clustered around the doorway, along with Laura who kept them at bay. Even more were still beginning to drift closer from their rooms.Peter ignored them, focusing solely on the tense boy in his arms. Stiles was breathing sharply and digging his nails into his shoulders. His backside was covered in sweat. 

“ _Disperse!_ ” Peter heard a loud shout from the hallway, followed by an authoritative growl. The crowd gathering outside the room broke apart, save for Laura and Derek who'd appeared at her side. With the group parted Talia walked in, taking in the nestled pair on the bed. 

“What happened?” she asked seriously. Her eyes lingered over Stiles shaking form. 

“Nothing,” Peter gruffed. 

“Tell me what-” she started to flash her alpha eyes. Peter snarled. 

“Don't do that! You'll make it worse,” he snapped. He nuzzled the top of the humans head softly. “He just had a bit of a panic attack. He'll be alright.” 

“Why did he panic?” Talias asked evenly. She knealed down next to them so she could look into the humans eyes. Stiles averted his face from hers and let it rest against Peters shoulder. 

“Because he has seperation anxiety.” That was all the explanation she needed. Her and Laura. Talia edged closer. She looked to Peter and held her hand out near Stiles shoulder. Peter shook his head and she withdrew it. The human finally lifted his head and looked back at her warily. 

Stiles was lucid enough now to be aware that he was being watched by a third party. He lifted his head warily. 

“Are you alright, Stiles?” Talia asked softly, but Stiles didn't seem to even register her. He saw she was there, and decided he didn't care. He tucked his head back underneath Peters and pressed as close to him as he possibly could. 

“He does get anxious, mom,” Laura said from her spot in the corner of the room .”He was like that when he was with me, too.” 

“Is he getting help for it?” Talia asked. 

“He's got some newer medications we've been trying out. He doesn't like them, sometimes he 'forgets' to take them.” Peter still wasn't looking at either women. His eyes were on Stiles, and that's where they would remain. Said human took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I-I'm okay now,” he said quietly. He tried to crawl off Peters lap, but Peter held him in place and continued to run his hand down Stiles back. 

Talias serious gaze broke and she looked at him with all the affection a motherly type could give. 

“I'm sorry you feel this way, Stiles, but I'm glad that my brother could help you get better.”


	20. Belligerent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek still doesn't like his new housemate.

Derek was beginning to feel like a stalker. He just couldn't shake the uncanny feeling that crept up his spine whenever he saw the human. He just couldn't see what made his companionship with Peter work. Everything Peter did was cold and calculated to an infantismal degree; whereas Stiles ate his cereal from a cup because he couldn't be bothered to find a spoon. He was as awkward and inattentive as his owner wasn't. He couldn't figure why Peter would want to bring home and keep such a peculiar thing. Stiles was getting food, shelter, and a reasonable amount of care from Peter; but what was Peter getting? He wasn't the type to be altruistic for altruism sake. 

Then there was the smell, or rather, lack of. Even at breakfast he smelled like nothing, and when he did smell like something he smelled too sweet, or too plain. Normal humans didn't smell like that. It was like comparing a rose scented candle to an actual rose; they weren't all that similar when side-by-side, but Derek had nothing he could compare him too, he just knew it wasn't right. His family seemed oblivious to it, and when he asked Talia if she thought he was odd she just sighed and said 'well, he lives with Peter, he's bound to be a little strange.'

He tried to keep his mind off the pair, but the obnoxiously loud crunching from across the table made it near impossible. He and Stiles were often the last two to arrive down for breakfast, and subsequently the last two to leave. In Stiles case because he was a light sleeper, and Dereks because he didn't enjoy noisy, crowded places. Peter would either already be there, or come down soon after his pet. 

Peter yawned and walked into the room with a scowl, which quickly turned to light amusement as he looked at his pet, scrolling through his tablet with his cereal cup by his side. He let his fingers graze over the boys neck as he passed him. Stiles nodded in greeting, swallowing down another mouthful. 

“What are you making?” the human asked as Peter started rummaging through the pantry. 

“Probably a bagel.” Derek looked back down at his own breakfast. He dug into it with more earnest, he wanted to leave before the pair became unbearable. 

“You should share with me.”

“You should chew with your mouth closed,” Peter remarked as he pulled a bagel out of the pantry. Stiles wiped the lingering trails of milk from the side of his mouth. Peter popped the bagel into the toaster and leaned against the counter to wait. 

“Share with me,” Stiles demanded. “I'm a weak, innocent animal, and I deserve a bagel.” 

“You could make your own, you know.” 

“You make them better than I do!” 

Peter sighed, tapping his fingers along the counter. “I'm sure putting cream cheese on a slice of bread doesn't require finessing.”

“Well,” Stiles paused, “ordinarily that's true, it's just that you're _soo good_ at everything. You've found a way to make even bagels better.”

_Oh, so that's what he's getting. Flattery._ Derek thought, unable to contain his snort. It was covered by the sound of the toaster popping. 

“All of that is true,” Peter said, pointing his knife in Stiles direction. “But I'm still not sharing with you.” He slathered a small layer of cream cheese over his bagel. 

Stiles whined pitifully and dropped down onto his knees. He latched onto Peters leg and began rubbing his head up and down, purring like a cat. The gesture might have seemed sweet if it weren't so . . . odd. Peter scoffed and broke off a peice of his bagel. 

As soon as the pastry was put in his hands Stiles eyes glinted devilishly and he ran off, leaving behind the mess he'd made on the counter. Peter sighed and picked up Stiles glass, dumping it into the sink for him, as though the situation was common between them. 

Derek hoped it wasn't. He cleared his throat. 

“Yes?” Peter asked without looking up. 

“Stiles . . . seems affectionate.” 

Peter took a bite of his bagel and assumed Stiles previous place at the table. “He can be,” he said simply. 

“Where does he sleep?” Derek asked once he couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. The night Stiles screamed they found him in Peters room. His scent was strong there.

"He has a room next to mine." It was a non-answer.

"But where does he _sleep_?" 

Peter smirked and looked up. "Usually in my bed, with me."

"But, isn't that wrong?" Derek couldn't put his finger on why it bothered him, but it did. “He's your pet.” 

"As I recall you used to have a cat that slept with you when you were younger. Mister Sniffles was his name?” Derek looked away at the mention of his old pet. He was always fond of that cat, with its watery eyes and fluffy white tail. 

"But that's different, it was a cat," he defended. 

"So? You said yourself that Stiles is my pet. What makes him any different than a cat or a dog?" Peter looked to his phone and began to click at the keys, but the smirk was still present on his face.

Derek had to stop and think. There was a difference, but he couldn't find it. A cat was an animal, so was Stiles. He could speak, but so could many different species of bird and those were commonly kept as pets too. Still, there was something off about the whole situation. Peters smirk confirmed the suspicion as correct. 

“Forgot my tablet!” the sudden voice made Derek jump. Stiles skipped back into the room and grabbed the device off the counter, tucking it under his arm. 

“Stiles, Derek wanted to pet you,” Peter pointed out in a way that managed to sound taunting. Derek shot a look at his uncle, but he hadn't looked up from his phone. 

Stiles stiffened and leveled a calculating stare at his direction. Derek looked away and scratched the back of his head. 

“He can pet me all he wants- but be careful, the cat bites,” he said warningly. He made clawing motions with his hands, nearly dropping the tablet in the processs. 

“We don't _have_ a cat, Stiles.” Peter sighed, sitting back in his chair and taking another bite of his bagel. 

“Oh sure we do, I've seen it. It was small, and brown, and-” 

“There is _no cat,_ Stiles.” Peter said again, giving him a cold look. His eyes narrowed to a point. Stiles grinned in an almost giddy way, like a child on the verge of spilling a secret. He fidgeted with his hands. 

“Go play now,” Peter commanded, shooing him off with a fixed look. Stiles pouted a little, shifted the device under his arms, and left. Derek stood to follow him. 

He wanted to put a pin in whatever was making him feel so unnerved around the human. He certainly wasn't unfriendly, and some of what he said was strange but it felt like more than that. It felt like something was just _off_.

“I'm not cleaning up after both of you.” 

Derek grimaced in the doorway and went back to his plate with a grumble. After that was done he followed the direction Stiles went. It was difficult, without being able to scent his trail, but after two weeks he'd come to have a tentative grasp on the humans daily schedule. 

He found Stiles curled up in his mothers library, where he'd made a small pile of books in the corner. Peter would follow him up soon enough, the pair rarely parted for long.

As he edged closer to the human he could see the faint outline of a hemlock plant etched on the pages. Before he could make out any words the book was slammed shut. The human looked up at him. Unsure of how to proceed Derek reached out a hand and softly stroked his head. The human grimaced. 

“Oh. Thank you,” he said again. His voice was stiffer now. Derek drew his hand away with a nod. 

“Can you read?” asked Derek, doing his best to not sound condescending. 

“No, I just like to look at the pretty pictures.” 

“Oh, well, uh . . . “

“Of course I can read,” Stiles scoffed. “Would you like me to teach you?” 

Derek lifted his lips in a snarl. 

“Rawr rawr rawr,” Stiles said back, in his own awful impersonation of a growl. “You know I wasn't lying about the cat,” he said, closing the book he held. “It's a nasty thing.” 

“Peter said there isn't a cat.” 

Stiles laughed. “Have you ever known Peter to be honest? Because I haven't.” He couldn't argue with that logic. He sniffed to see if Stiles was telling the truth. 

He smelt nothing. 

Literally nothing. Stiles scent was completely absent from his body. Dereks eyes widened just slightly. He seized Stiles abruptly by the shoulders and pulled him forward, sticking his nose onto the top of his head where his scent should have been strongest. Still nothing. He'd known the scent was faint but not _gone_. There should have been something at least, even after a shower. 

The only scent on him was _Peters_ and it covered him absolutely. He thought it was just his clothes that smelled so heavily of his uncle but it was _Stiles_. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Stiles complained of the rough treatment, putting his hands on Dereks chest and attempting to shove him back.

“You don't smell!” 

“Well duh, I just took a shower, Sherlock.” Stiles succeeded in yanking himself back. 

“No, it's more than that, you don't-” he sniffed again. There was a little bit of an unfamiliar smell, but it was faint. Easily overlooked. “I guess you smell a little?” 

“Well that's rude,” Stiles huffed. “I don't go around telling people they smell and don't smell.” Derek stuck his nose under the humans chin. The smell should have been strongest there, but it was still just a faint waft. Derek growled. 

“Peter! Help!” Stiles yelled, wedging his feet up between himself and the wolf. Derek growled at him, just as a hand closed around his jacket and yanked him roughly off. He landed on his back against the floor. 

“Derek,” Peter said smoothly. “You know I don't like other people touching my things.” He stood over him with his arms crossed.

\- - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Derek tried harder to avoid them after that. Even in a play fight Peter would never let him win, and when Stiles shouted his name he got this _look_ in his eye. A fiercely protective look. One he didn't want to come face to face with again. He managed to stay away for three, whole days. 

“He's soooo cute.” Derek looked up fro his book and sniffed the air. He could smell his sisters scents, but no one elses. His lips lifted into a snarl as he imagined who the two girls could be fawning over. The same, scentless being they were always fawning over. 

“No he isn't,” Cora argued, and Derek felt a moment of pride. “He's a vicious predator, a natural born killer,” she proclaimed. There was no response to that but a scuffle, and then a giggle. 

“He licked my cheek!” said Laura, delightedly. The book Derek held snapped in half in his hands. He stood from the chair and did nothing short of a stomp into the other room. 

“Give him here, I want to hold him!” Cora demanded, pulling away the thing bundled in Lauras arms. Instead of a squirming, awkward, teenage boy, she held a squirming, ackward, cat. She settled the brown tabby thing on her chest, a little too close to her chest. Laura pouted and placed her hand on the top of his head, between two black ears. 

“Where did you get that?” Derek asked, nostrils flaring. The cat purred happily while Laura twined his tail between her fingers. He rubbed his face along Coras jawline, arching his back in tandem with her hand strokes. 

“Cora found him outside, poor thing was covered in snow,” she cooed down at the animal. His fluffy tail swung contentedly from side to side. 

“He doesn’t look all that cold.” Derek wrinkled his nose. A cat in the middle of the Californian mountains? Not likely, not when they were the nearest house for miles. “I can’t smell him.”He complained.

Cora pressed her nose to the side of the cats face. He wiggled and tried to move away from her. Laura sniffed at his flank. 

“Huh. Maybe all the snow washed it off. Don't cat's take like, nine baths a day? I'm not surprised he's clean.” Neither sister seemed perturbed by the development, but Derek was. Derek could think of another being who didn't have a scent. 

“I can smell him,” Cora said. “He smells like dirt.” 

“That's just his paws,” Laura admonished. 

“I don’t like it,” Derek said. “Give him to me, I’ll put him back outside.” Cora gasped. 

“You can’t put him outside! He’ll freeze to death.” The not-quite cat cuddled closer to Cora, laying his head on her shoulder. “Besides, he's sleeping with me tonight,” she cooed.

Derek snarled. 

The cats head shot up, ears spiking to alert. Cora scrambled to hold onto the wiry creature as I shot from her arms. 

"Derek! You scared him!" Derek ignored his sisters complaints as the cat shot past his legs and dashed out into the hall. He followed in suit, just in time to see him leap into the waiting arms of Peter, who caught him with a practiced grace. 

"You found my pet," Peter smiled as the cat settled on his shoulders, draping its fluffy tail around his neck like a scarf. 

"Keep your pet away from my sisters," growled Derek. 

“Which pet?” Peter smirked. Derek snarled and stalked away, shooting the cat a final glare. As soon as he disappeared from he hallway the cat lept from his shoulders. He landed on both feet in the form of a naked - but still grinning like a madman - Stiles. 

Peter grabbed him by the chin and tilted his head up. “What have I told you,” he asked quietly, “about using magic in front of him?” Stiles pouted. 

“It's not like I intended too. I was practicing outside, and Cora found me.” He shrugged. “Now can we go somewhere where I can find pants?” 

“You don't need any. I’m sure you weren’t protesting too much when they had their hands all over you.” 

Stiles shrugged. “I like your nieces, they cuddle me.”His wicked grin returned. 

Peters eyes narrowed. “Remember who owns you, kitten.” 

“Yes, alpha,” Stiles purred mockingly, wrapping his arms up around the werewolves shoulders. Peter turned his eyes up towards the ceiling, then down to his human. 

“You are dangerous, you know that?” he muttered as he pushed open the door to a guest room. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - -   
"Dude, you're nephew totally thinks we're fucking right now," chuckled Stiles as he kicked the heardboard – for the fifteenth time – against the wall. 

"Mhm," Peter hummed. "You know, Stiles-" he grabbed the boy and flipped him over onto his back in a sudden movement. "Instead of pretending, we could actually be doing that." 

"Yeah, yeah I like that idea," Stiles grinned. 

"I knew you would," Peter leant down to kiss him. 

“Unlce Peter!” There was a frantic knocking on the doorway. “Uncle-” 

“What?” Peter gruffed, nosing at Stiles throat, ignoring Coras frantic attempts to enter the room. 

“There's . . . well . . . there's an alpha outside! He says he wants Stiles.” Stiles froze up.


	21. Blanched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for sticking with this story so long. Its a lot longer then I realized lol

Stiles back hurt, stomach felt shredded, and he had two large bruises on his upper forearm, but all-in-all it was good seeing Ennis again, even if he felt like he'd been stuck in a trash compactor. He winced each time his scarred side was squeezed a little too tightly. 

He grinned and wobbled a little as Ennis - surprisingly gently - put him onto the ground again, his feet getting stuck underneath a pile of snow. Behind him the mate he'd only heard talk of stood, watching them with a gaurded expression. She didn't look very impressed with the scrawny mess of a human who stood before her. 

“Finally, I can teach you how to catch a snow hare,” Ennis said with a grin, giving another bruising pat on the head. The Hales – a few of them – watched him take the abuse with shock and trepidation; they seemed too stunned to interfer. All except Peter, who was looking at him with his arms crossed and his teeth close to barring. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asked, through his confusion he couldn't keep the smile off his face. 

“My territory isn't far from this place. I found your note.” 

Stiles blinked. “My note-?” 

Ennis reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat stone. He offered it to the boy. Stiles took the rock in his hands and thumbed over the pointed tip. “You found my trail mark,” he grinned wider and Ennis nodded. 

“That, and you left your anxious scent all over the place,” he joked with a wink and a nudge. Stiles winced and rubbed his shoulder. “I'm surprised you're still human. If you'd been given to me I would have bitten you by now.” Ennis frowned and starred down at the feeble-bodied boy before him. 

The Hales behind them gasped. These days biting a human was almost certainly lethal, but Ennis was of the belief that one should be given the chance to survive as a wolf, rather than be confined to a miserable faulty body. They'd discussed it before, and each time Stiles shook his head and said no. He liked being a human, and was in no rush to meet his grave. He knew better than to take it as an insult or a threat. It warmed his heart a little to know Ennis still thought him worthy of being his beta. 

“I'm just happy to see you again,” Stiles said, giving a relieved sigh. 

“And I, you!” The wolf grinned, “Deucalion told me-” 

“Ennis,” Talia interrupted in her soft, but assertive voice. “I didn't know you and Stiles were so familiar.” Stiles looked back at the Hales, who wore mixed expressions of surprise, confusion, and a boatload of relief. 

Ennis nodded at the Hale matriarch. “I've known him for a very long time. He's quite the determined young creature,” he moved his large hand to Stiles side. A deep jolt of pain shot through his side from where his appendix used to be. 

“A-ah!” Stiles winced in pain as his left side was pressed on by a muscle hard as cement. “Careful, careful!” Ennis pulled back with a look of concern. 

“Are you hurt?” Without waiting for a response he stuck a hand underneath Stiles shirt and felt the tender surgical scar underneath. It was completely healed now, but anything too rough – like Ennis's cement-block hands – still caused him pain. His and Peters growls reverberated in the air in tandem. 

“Did he do this?” Ennis asked, eyes flashing dangerously red. Peter was unperturbed, letting out a small growl of his own and flashing his eyes yellow. He stepped forward. Stiles looked between them. 

“No, no no no!” he held up his hands in a placating manner. He knew how temperamental the two of them could be, and he'd hate to lose one to the other. Much as he loved Peter, he had little faith the beta could best an alpha. Especially not a giant alpha. “I just got sick. I'm fine now.” 

“He let you get sick?” Ennis and Peter were locked onto each other, letting out low-level rumbles that even Stiles could hear.

“Oh look, he can speak more than three words,” Peter said flippantly. 

“No!” Stiles interjected, shaking his head. “I just had a stomach issue, I-” 

“Stomach? What was he feeding you?” 

“Certainly not raw carcasses, I can tell you that much.” Peters eyes were still glowing. He laid a hand on his humans shoulder. Ennis looked at it. 

“Of course not,” Ennis smiled slowly, deliberately. “You'd have to actually _catch_ one-”

“Ennis!” Stiles interrupted. “You have to teach me how to hunt, okay? While you're here.” Ennis turned his attention from the beta down to the human. He nodded. 

“Of course.” His eyes relaxed. Peters hand gripped tightly onto Stiles shoulder. 

“You'll come back, then?” He felt a small fluttering of anxiety.

Ennis looked to Talia and cocked his head to one side. Stiles looked back at the women. He pressed his hands together in a praying fashion. She smiled softly at the pair. 

“As much as I appreciate a visit from one of our closest neighbors,” Talia said with a nod in both alphas directions, “a little warning would be appreciated, next time. You are welcome to come back here and visit Stiles.”

“Wahoo!” Stiles threw his arms up and hugged the giant wolf, wincing as he agitated his scar once more. Peter snarled under his breath. Ennis chuckled and patted him on the head.

“We will remember that,” Kali, the shewolf said. “Let's go now, Ennis.” She tugged on her mates sleeve in the direction of the woods. Ennis reluctantly pried the human from his torso and gave him a parting pat. 

Stiles noticed, peculiarly enough as they walked away, that she wasn't wearing any snow boots. 

\- - - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“You just let him get his scent all over my human!” Peter accused, jabbing a claw at his sister. Talia watched him patiently have his fit. 

“I did not 'just let him do' anything.” Talia braced herself against the desk, starring down her brother with sharp eyes. “We all watched the same thing you did. Ennis wasn't hurting him and Stiles _wanted_ to see him.” 

“He invaded our territory!” 

“It's not like he brought an army with him! It was just him, and the mate. They came to see Stiles, not declare war.” 

“And you're just going to let Stiles wander off into the woods with him? You're okay with that?” He wasn't calm but his voice leveled out. His claws dug into his shirt. “I don't know about you, but I like him best when he isn't crushed to death.” Though he didn't voice it, a large part of him worried that Stiles would want to leave with Ennis when he left. 

“I . . .” she thought for another minute, taking a deep breath to calm herself. “I don't think Ennis means to harm Stiles. They were _both_ excited to see each other. I also don't think it would be a good idea to start a war with our neighbor because you're feeling possessive. If Derek or Laura wanted to spend time with Ethan and Aidan, I wouldn't stop them from doing that, either.” 

“He's in direct contact with Deucalion, you know, the guy who just left him on my doorstep?” He spat out the weres name, just the thought of him made his blood boil.

“Ennis took care of Stiles for three years before you even knew his name. From what I know of the situation, he would have wound up a lot worse if Ennis hadn't been there to support him. You should be _thanking_ that alpha, not challenging him.” 

Peter glared and looked away. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “I don't like him getting close to Stiles.”

“Stiles is your responsibility,” Peter looked back at his sister. “If you want to ban him from seeing Ennis, than do it. But I'm not going to stop him from trying to have a friend. I don't think you should either.”

Peter huffed. He really hated when his sister was right. 

\- - - - - – - - 

Stiles stomach twisted and turned. He felt the bruises forming on his arms and hips from where Ennis squeezed him a little too tight. His heart was too cold and too hot all at the same time. In his mind flashed the faces of all the others he'd crossed paths with over time, and how none of them ever tried contacting him again. Ennis was the rare exception to the rule. 

He walked around the Hale property, with nothing else to do but think. He thought getting out might make him feel better. It only reminded him of the days he and Ennis would spend wandering through the forest in a place very distant from California. 

His pensive thoughts distracted him from noticing the tiny pack of children running their way towards him. 

He looked up just in time to catch a chest-full of werewolf child. “Oomph!” he grunted when the child headbutted him, thankfully away from any of his sensitive bits. 

“Safe!” the boy shouted, grasping onto Stiles coat. “Stiles is safe.” Stiles blinked and quickly wiped some water from his eyes. 

“He's not safe!” the other wereboy, the one Stiles remembered as being named Jacks said, crossing his arms stubbornly. He almost reminded Stiles of Derek, with his everlasting scowl. “The bench is safe, that's what we decided.” The blonde werewolf shook his head. 

“No! Stiles is safe.” 

“What?” Stiles asked, trying to extract himself. 

“If he's playing now then he should be it.” Another child decided, one of the girls. “New people are always it.” 

“I have no idea what any of you are talking about,” Stiles said. He's efforts to free himself from the childs grasp were futile. He was reminded how painfully weak he was when compared to a wolf, even a child. The little boy, Jacks, looked at him. Then at the blonde one, and then at Stiles. 

“Tag! You're it!” he shouted, batting Stiles on the arm. All the children started to shriek, including the one who'd been clinging to him. They ran, darting off in different directions while Stiles stood there, watching them disappear behind the trees and around corners. 

“Why am I always it?” Stiles said with a feeling of dread. He started to chase after them. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“Slow down!” Stiles shouted, wheezing as he chased them from tree to tree. “C'mon guys, this really isn't fair!” The children giggled and continued running. He was pretty sure he managed to pat one of them somewhere along the line, but they all claimed they hadn't seen it. 

“Oof!” Stiles breath was knocked out of him as he hit the ground, landing solidly on his stomach. He felt a sharp sting in his knee and winced, righting himself and looking down. He rolled up his pant-leg to see a scrape covering most of his knee. He touched it and hissed in pain. A little blood stained his skin. 

“You wounded me, you little brute,” he complained, reaching out to ruffle the hair of the child who'd tackled him. Jacks shied away from his hand and looked at the scrape with wide, horrified eyes. Then the game was suddenly over as all six of the children started to cry. 

“H-hey,” Stiles said, reaching out again for the boy who once more stepped back, big wet tears in his eyes. “It's okay. I didn't mean it.” 

“It's not healing!” Jacks whined, wiping his eyes on his sleeve as he pointed at the scrape. 

“What? Oh, no, it's fine, really-” 

“It's not healing, that means somethings really, really wrong!” He let out another wail that made Stiles wince. The little boys face went red with the tears that streamed down it. 

“No, no no no no, no,” Stiles shook his head quickly. “No, it's okay-” 

“It isn't! Jacks hurt Stiles!” one of the girls cried. The children were all now whining inconsolably. The girls cry made Jacks face twist into a guilty, horrified mess as his sobs doubled over. 

“I didn't mean it!” 

“Yes, you-” 

“ _No,_ ” Stiles repeated firmly, making the child stop her accusation. “Jacks didn't do anything. Look, c'mere.” This time when he reached out Jacks let himself be pulled onto his lap.

“I'm not hurt,” he said, turning the little boys face up to look in his eyes. “I'm just fine. See? I'm not even crying.” The scrap did sting a little, but not enough for him to make a little boy feel bad about it. 

“B-but then why isn't it healing?” he clung his fists into Stiles jacket, big wet tears still streamed down his face. “Its supposed to be gone.” Stiles shrugged. 

“It is. Just very, very slowly. My wounds don't heal as fast as yours, it's part of being human.” The boy looked at him disbelievingly. “Look, see, I'll prove it to you.” He set jacks back down onto the snow and lifted up the right side of his jacket. 

“What is that?” The other girl squealed. They'd all stopped crying to stare with a mixture of curiosity and fear at the dark scar running up Stiles side. 

“It's what happens when my wounds don't heal quite right.” 

“Why wouldn't they heal right?” Another one of the boys stepped forward. Jacks stretched his fingers out and lightly touched the marred skin. 

“Sometimes they just don't,” Stiles said with a shrug. 

“That sounds painful.” Another boy came forward, and he too reached out and touched the very tip of the scar, just above his ribs. 

“It was,” Stiles said with a nod. “It didn't close completely for three days. I had to-” 

“You were in pain for three days? Three _whole_ days! Did you _die_?” The question made him smile. Their looks of pity turned into wonder and amazement. They looked up at him as if he were some kind of superhero for just being able to withstand a couple days of pain.

“No, stupid! If he died how'd he be here?” The blonde boy said, sticking out his tongue. 

“Why didn't your mommy and daddy take your pain away?” The littlest girl asked. 

Stiles insides clenched. He tried to shrug it off. A warm, rough hand appeared on his shoulder. 

“If you don't head inside soon you can tell them all the tale of how you got _frostbite_ ,” a smooth voice said behind him. Stiles looked up to see Peter, standing in the snow, looking grumpy as usual. Stiles pouted up at him.

“I guess I have to go and get a bandage anyways, sorry kiddos,” Stiles said with a sigh, picking the little boy up off his lap and setting him back down onto his feet. 

“No!” Jacks said, tugging on Stiles leave. “I need a bandage too!” 

“Oh?” Stiles raised a brow. Peter knelt down next to them. “Well then let's see your wound?” 

“It's on the inside,” the boy said defensively. “But I need a bandage. Like Stiles.” The little boy looked up in thought, wiping some of the wetness from his cheeks.

“So do I!” said the blonde boy. The other children were quick to chime in. 

“Do all of you have internal injuries that need bandaging?” Peter asked, raising a brow at them. The kids nodded. 

“Well then, I suppose we have to get everyone fixed up.” Stiles grinned and planted a loving kiss on Peters cheek. The wolf huffed, but even the corners of his lips started to twitch up a little. 

They went inside with the children, who watched him disinfect and bandage his wound with fascination. He grinned and bore it even when it hurt like a motherfucker. After he was done, Jacks proudly announced that he was still probably dying, and also needed a bandage. 

Several rolls of gauze tape later and all the children were finally satisfied with their make believe wounds. Jacks looked like a tiny mummy, with both his legs and arms wrapped up in gauze. He was 'half-human' he claimed, and needed twice as much treatment as the other children. At the very least, Stiles felt a small sliver of pride in hoping that in the future if they found an injured human they'd know exactly what to do. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - – - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Once they were finished with the children they walked back to their room. Stiles pulled off his snowboots and his jacket, soaked with snow and coated in dirt. He threw on one of Peters T-shirts and a pair of his pants and crawled onto the bed with Peter, cuddling up into his side. Peter lifted up his arm and allowed Stiles to take his customary position with his head on his chest. 

“Kids are so cute,” the boy said with a sigh, then, much more seriously, added, “I think we should talk about having one of our own.” 

Peter froze. His grip on Stiles tightened and for once in his life he was honestly lost for words. 

“I'm just kidding!” Stiles laughed, grinning his goofy grin up at him. 

“Oh thank god,” Peter said, letting out a breath. “They are cute, but,” he shrugged. “I can't be a very good parent. I can barely keep you alive,” he said with a dramatic sigh. 

Stiles grin faltered. His gaze suddenly became very distant. A soft, sullen wave washed over him. 

“Stiles? What's wrong?”

“I miss my mom and dad,” he said in a dead, forlorn tone. Peter frowned and kissed him lightly on the top of his head. He should have known another conversation like this was coming. He still cringed every time someone in the house referred to him as 'cousin' Stiles. 

“I know, kitten.” 

Stiles sniffled. 

 

“Who would do something like that?” Stiles asked, burying his face against Peters chest. “Who would take a little kid from his parents?” 

“Stiles . . .” Peter hesitated. “You know what they did, how they took you, it wasn’t legal, right? You know you were kidnapped?” Stiles looked away, tears still pooling in the corner of his eyes. 

“I guessed as much,” he said quietly. “But I checked Missing Persons for years, I was never on there. What if . . . what if my parents really are dead? Do you think those wolves killed them?” Peter gently ran a hand down his back and wrapped it around his waist. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Help me find them,” Stiles looked up at him then, with wide, watery eyes. “Help me find my family.” Peters heart sank. 

“Stiles . . . as much as I want you to be happy, I have no idea how to even go about finding your family. You don’t remember where you grew up, what your parents full names were, a date of birth; we have basically nothing to go on. I’m not ever going to tell you not to look, or hinder you in your progress, but . . . the chances of finding them aren’t very good. I just want you to be realistic about it.” Stiles dropped his head back onto Peters shoulder, taking a shuddering breath. 

“I know,” he said meekly. “I just . . . want to try.” Peter nodded and nuzzled softly the top of his head. He could feel the heartbreak and pain in the air. “You'll help me try, right?” 

He remembered back to that truly awful feeling he had when he watched Stiles writhe painfully on the floor of his living room, clutching his ride side as his appendix burst. He remembered how helpless and terrifying it had been to have absolutely no control of the situation, to be forced to rely on someone else to help his human and just hope they knew what they were doing. 

It must have been how Stiles felt a lot of the time. He could imagine how that feeling could lead him to become the frantic, anxious individual he was now. He hugged Stiles close and planted kisses onto his forehead.

Maybe he _couldn’t_ help Stiles find his family, but he knew someone who could. Someone who made it his entire families personal business to locate missing humans. 

“Of course I'll help you.”


	22. Blizzard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Ennis finally get some bro time, and Peter seeks out help.

“Would you like to pack me a lunch and write him a list of my allergies, too?” Stiles asked with his head resting on his hand. He was dressed in his – Dereks – snow clothes, waiting patiently for Peter to drop the over protective parent act. 

“I just don't want you coming back flattened,” the wolf said flippantly as he rummaged through his things. 

“He's known me for three years, and in all that time magically managed _not_ to get me killed. I think he can handle one day in the mountains.”

Peter found what he was looking for and pulled it from the bag. He held out a small, rectangular package. “Here, take this with you.” 

Stiles took it and sighed. “A granola bar, Peter, really? He's not an idiot. It's not like I'll starve within a couple of hours, either.” 

“If you get hungry don't blame me if he tries to feed you raw venison.” Stiles sighed and tucked the bar into his pocket. He actually wouldn't be surprised if Ennis tried feeding him raw venison, but he wasn't about to admit that. 

“Can we go now, please?” he whined. He was beginning to feel like a child in the middle of two combative parents. Not that he remembered much what having parents was like. 

“Fine. I'm going to be late for my meeting soon, anyways.” Stiles rolled his eyes. He was almost one hundred percent certain the 'meeting' was entirely made up. Somehow, in the presence of Ennis and the overly supportive Hale family, the thought of Peter leaving him didn't bother him as much as it should have. A little tug of anxiety still poked around in his brain, but he didn't feel compelled to let himself be overwhelmed by it. 

“Oh, of course. You're magical, mysterious, meeting that came out of nowhere.” Stiles said, nodding his head along sarcastically. He shoved his feet into Dereks boots and pulled his jacket on. “Just a coincidence I'm seeing Ennis today, I'm sure.” 

“It is just a coincidence,” Peter pulled on his coat. “I could never be jealous of someone with less than ten brain cells.” Despite his words, Peter kept leaving small, scenting touches all over his clothes and his back as they walked down the hall.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - 

Stiles and Ennis walked a narrow, untended path in the snow. Over his shoulder Ennis carried an assortment of ropes, sticks, and other supplies that were supposed to help the human learn to hunt. Stiles only hoped that _hunting_ was not synonmous with _butchering_. 

“I was angry when he sold you off without telling me.” Ennis admitted. Stiles had to hop to keep pace with him in the snow. Thinking back, he always had to hop to keep pace with him, the snow only made it a little more awkward. “I know you were always his to begin with, but,” the alpha shrugged. “He should have just given you to me. I was the one who took care of you in the first place.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, taking a giant leap to try and wind up ahead of the giant. Ennis was at his side again in less than two strides. “For being upset. I missed you.” Ennis ruffled the short hairs on his head. His firm, ungloved palm was rough, warm, and familiar. It gave Stiles heart a sense of ease that he hadn't felt in a long time. 

“It was strange not having anyone to watch movies with, or take to the woods. One minute you were there, and then the next Deucalion told me I wouldn't need to be stopping by anymore.” Ennis took his hand off he humans head and continued their walk. 

Stiles bristled. “Please don't say that name around me.” He kicked a small pile of hapless snow out of his way. “As far as I'm concerned, he's dead. As far as he's concerned, I am too.”

Ennis was willing to drop the subject. “How is Peter? Does he treat you better?” 

“Great, Peter is great.” Stiles said. “Really, he’s taken very good care of me. All the Hales have.” 

Ennis nodded. “They are a very large pack. Talia is a good leader. Let me know if I have to destroy them.” Stiles laughed but Ennis wasn't smiling. “I would, you know.” 

“I know, and I appreciate that. But please, don't murderize anyone on my account. Really, they're good people.” 

“Still no human friends, though?” Stiles shook his head. 

“No, but I don't need any.”

“A wolf without a pack isn't a wolf at all, Stiles. My offer stands.” They shared a look. “If you don't want to be human anymore, you don't have to be.” Stiles bit his lip. As always there was a temptation there. 

He felt Ennis hand on his back, his thick fingers pressing down between his shoulder blades. “Thanks, again.” Stiles smiled a sad smile. “But I can't give away the only thing I still have left of my parents. You understand that, right?” Ennis hand on his back moved up to his shoulder and squeezed lightly, just enough that it wasn't painful. 

“I understand. They were your first pack, you want to be loyal to them.” Stiles nodded again. It wasn't quite the way he would have put it, but if someone like Ennis could understand he needed a family, why couldn't anyone else? 

“Listen,” Ennis continued, looking down at the human. His fingers tightened on his shoulder again. “If that wolf ever hurts you, I will crush him.” He starred down at Stiles with a steely gaze. 

Stiles nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yup. Yeah! Please don't crush Peter, En. I like Peter.” 

“No one likes Peter.” 

“ _I_ like Peter.” Ennis was about to open his mouth to respond, when he sighted something in the distance. He pointed in that direction. 

“Shhh, do you see those?” He motioned towards the small prints in the snow. 

“Uhm, yeah. Those are tracks. What do we do now?” He asked with a small squelch of dread. 

“Now,” Ennis grinned. “We hunt.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Christopher Argent impatiently drummed his fingernails along the table. If he had been given seven years to write a list of all the Hales who might ever contact him, Peter would be on the very bottom. Sitting across from him the wolf took a sip of his coffee.

“Missing?” he repeated. 

“Yes, missing.” Peter said, somehow managing to sound exasperated and condescending at the same time. He supposed it was just a very unique character trait. 

“How do you know that he's missing?” 

“Let's just say that the person who gave him to me isn't known for their upstanding community and moral values. In addition – his papers reek of forgeries.” In his head Chris was already making plans to send the search and seizure unit directly to the Hale compound. 

“So what do you want, just to find out where he came from? I hate to break it to you, but that isn't what we do. If he's illegal I have an obligation to seize and relocate him to a nice, _human_ family. What's to stop me from just taking him?” Peters hand clenched around his cup. 

“I'm asking you not to do that, Chris. If you take him from me he'll never trust anyone ever again. He'll spend his whole life waiting for the world to pull him away from anyone he makes an attachment to. Did I tell you that the first time I went to the grocery store after taking him in he screamed at me? He thought I left to find him a new owner.”

“Once he's had time to settle-” 

“He's lived with me for a year now, he lived with his past owner for three. 'Settling' isn't what he needs. He needs stability. You want to traumatize him? Even more than he already is? Go ahead, tear him from the people he considers family. The only reason I'm here at all is because Stiles needs his family back. His _original_ family back.” 

Chris kept his face carefully blank as Peter spoke. It wasn't the Peter he remembered from years ago. The Peter he knew wouldn't risk his freedom trying to help someone else, and Peter _was_ risking his freedom. If Stiles papers were truly forged he had every right to take them to the police and have the man arrested. 

“Let's say I do want to help you, do you know how hard it is to find a human once they've been sold? It's even harder to find out where they came from. Do you have his first name, last name, date of birth? Anything to go by?” Chris leaned back in his chair, thinking. 

“I don't think any of those that came with him are real,” Chris grimaced. “I do have a photo of him when he was younger though, it came with his papers.” 

Chris nodded. “That might help a little. Does he remember anything about his childhood at all? Even the smallest details?” Peter thought. 

“He doesn't like to talk about it, I don't ask about it. He said he was taken away from his parents late one night, but, I think the memories too traumatic for him to relive. He told me his father liked black coffee, and his mother read him picture books. That's the most we ever talked about it.” 

“You've had him for a year and you haven't asked about his childhood?” Chris raised a brow. 

“Chris, I can't so much as go to the grocery store without giving him a panic attack. You want to see how bad it gets? Take a look.” Peter put his cellphone down in the middle of the table, tapping it open to Stiles contact information, and then the messages between them. 

Chris slid the phone over to his side and scrolled through them, his frown deepening. He cringed when page after page of messages were filled with bipolar sentiments of love and hate. One minute his words were affectionate, the next despairing. Several were outright accusations of abandonment, to which Peter always responded with comforting words of reassurance that he would be back soon. Stiles never seemed to believe it. 

“So he's codependent at this point?” 

“No,” Peter gave a wry smile. “If anything he's too independent. He's just anxious. Like I said before, he thinks everyone will eventually leave him. He tries not to form any attachments, but he can't stand to be alone. Chris, please, I need your help.” The please is what finally did him in. In all his years of knowing Peter he'd never heard those words escape his lips, not even in sarcasm. He knew what he was facing by going to an Argent. 

“So what do you want, then, Peter?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. 

“Help me find his parents.” 

“And once we do?” 

“Then help me get them back together. If Stiles wants to stay with them, I'm not going to stop him, but, he should have the right to choose.” Chris nodded. 

“Alright, I'll help you.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Did you have fun building snowmen?” Peter asked as Stiles reentered the room, kicking snow off of his boots. 

“Ennis taught me how to catch a snowhare,” Stiles said, pulling the cap off his head and shaking out his lightly dripping hair. “I'm not very good at it.” His cheeks, ears, and nose were tinted red from the cold. He could see flakes of snow still clinging to his pants and jacket. 

Peter looked up from where he sat on the bed, well-worn book in his hands. 

“Ah, and what stimulating conversation you two must have had,” Peter said, dryly with a roll of his eyes. “C'mere,” he grumbled, motioning for Stiles to join him on the bed. Stiles shrugged off his coat and Dereks much sought-after boots. 

“If you think that's stimulating you should have seen how we first met,” he said as he pulled his shirt up over his head. Peters love bites were still a prominent fixture on his skin. He was a very lovely sight, but not lovely enough to distract him from the boys words. “He made me eat his meat-” 

“What?” Peters eyes narrowed, shoulders going tense. Stiles looked over as he redressed into a sweart shirt and pajama pants. The sweatshirt had at one time belonged to Peter, until Stiles appropriated it. 

“Oh, no gross! Not like that!” His big doe eyes widened, and then a grin cracked across his face. “Can you imagine? Me and En-” 

“Stop saying his name!” Peter demanded. The book bent under the twisting of his hands. 

“Look, you don't get it. What happened was, he had a big package and-” Stiles made a large shape with his hands. 

“You're doing that on purpose,” Peter narrowed his eyes. Stiles grin didn't falter, his grin only widened. 

“Can you blame me? You're cute when you're jealous.” He winked and crossed the room. The bed shifted it's weight as Stiles crawled onto it, snuggling up to the wolves side. Peter wrapped his arm around the boys cold shoulders and looked down at him, accusingly. 

“You said you weren't a virgin when we met. Is he who you lost it too?” 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles scoffed. “Seriously, he'd literally crush me to death.” 

“You never talk about how you lost your virginity. Why is that, Stiles? Is it because I know whom it is?” 

“I won't tell you because it's _embarrassing_. Not like you ever talked to me about your first time, either.” His heart beat didn't blip, not even once. But then again, Stiles had always been a clever little liar. 

“What, were you a little too quick to the draw, something like that? Just tell me.” 

“Okay you want to know so bad? Fine,” Stiles took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “We were like . . . sixteen or something. I met a girl, super hot, blonde,” he winced when Peter grasped his arm a little tighter. “Anyways. We fucked outside so her parents wouldn't smell it, but we didn't know we were on top of a poison oak tree, and I got an infection all down my back and over my ass. I almost scratched my nuts off. Happy?” 

Peter stared at him. 

Stiles stared back. 

“That is adorable,” he released the human from his constrictor hold and patted his head. “Only you, Stiles.” The boy scowled at him.


	23. Bound

“Which ones do we need to go through?” Peter asked, motioning towards the large stacks of files. There were dozens of crates, boxes, and folders all stacked neatly about the room. He could imagine there was at least a thousand, including those hidden from view by desks and furniture. 

“All of them,” said Chris, looking up at him with a serious expression. He dropped the pile he held in front of the werewolf. “Get to reading.” 

“All of them?” Peter said in bewilderment. He grabbed the first file and open it. A young child, missing ten years ago, brown hair, brown eyes, but definitely _not_ Stiles. The childs face was too clear and unblemished. He looked at the photo he'd brought of Stiles and the distinctive markings that coated his cheeks and throat. 

“In these situations the abductors usually change names, hair colors, hair styles, dates of birth, anything they can to make the human harder to find. These folders are all the brown haired, brown eyed children that went missing from around the same time as Stiles.” 

“There's no way to narrow it down?” Peter discarded the first folder on the desk and picked up the next. 

“There would be if we could talk to-” 

“No,” Peter shook his head. 

“It would make things a lot easier for us.” 

“For us, not for him. There's no way in hell I'm putting Stiles through the stress of searching for his family only to come up with nothing. The second I even _mention_ his parents the panic attacks, the stress, the paranoia, it all comes back full force. I'm not doing that to him without a solid reason.” 

“. . . You've changed, Peter Hale.” Chris ran a hand through his hair and pulled up a chair next to the werewolf. 

“So have you,” Peter said lightly. He pulled the stack of files towards him and began the long, arduous work of sorting through each and every missing persons file. 

\- - - - - - - - - - – - - - - - - - 

Christmas came and went at the Hale household. Stiles and Peter lay snuggled together on the sofa they'd claimed, Stiles wearing a pair of warm, fuzzy socks Laura had given him and all her siblings as a present. 

Derek and Cora roasted marshmallows in their strange, silent contentedness. Talia and Laura drank hot chocolate at the coffee table. Things were quiet, but they were nice. Even Ennis stopped by and offered the family a sizable chunk of venison, which Talia accepted with perfect grace and humility. Peter only snarled twice while watching Ennis bear hug his human. For the first time in a long time, Stiles actually felt content. He felt like he was going to be okay. 

Peter stroked his hand lovingly down his as they listened to the fire crackle. “Oh look, mistletoe,” he said, nudging Stiles in the shoulder and pointing up towards where a sprig settled above the doorway. 

“Dare you to eat it,” Stiles joked, giving the were a playful shove. Peter rolled his eyes. 

He leaned down and kissed Stiles firmly on the lips. Stiles face heated up, but instead of pushing Peter away he pulled him closer by his shirt and kissed him back. They parted with a nuzzle. Stiles ears were burning, but it was the happiest Peter had ever seen him. Cora coughed uncomfortably. 

“Childreeeen,” Talia hummed from nearby, motioning towards the toddlers playing on the carpet. 

Laura gave them a smirk and whispered, “ _called it_ ,” to her brother. 

Dereks eye twitched. “But he- and Peter- ugh, never mind. Merry Christmas. I'm making eggnog,” Derek said as left the room in a hurry. Laura smirked and took a sip from her glass. 

Stiles sighed contentedly and nestled against Peters chest. 

“I have another present for you,” Peter said, running his hand down Stiles back. “But it has to wait until we get home.” 

“Oh, really?” Stiles wiggled his brows. “A 'home' present? But that was supposed to be what I got you, seeing as I don't have any money and all,” Peter smacked him on the back of the head. 

“Not like that. It's a different kind of present.” Stiles gave him a puzzled look but settled back down against his chest. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - - - - - - 

Somewhere far from the Hale household, hidden behind walls and fences in a specialized community, a retired sheriff sat in his armchair with a cold beer in his hand. He never got over the loss of his son. The death of his wife a few years later was a harsh blow, but the light was already gone from his eyes. 

The expensive therapists that the Argent Group paid for helped, but only a little. Every morning he woke up, took his pill, got dressed, and wait for the world turn a little more monochrome. He never stopped thinking about Stiles; he never stopped wondering where he was, how he was doing, if he was even happy there. He was moving forward but he wasn't move on. 

On the mantle pictures of Stiles and his wife overlooked the room. They weren't very good pictures; the one was taken just a day or two before Stiles was taken by the werewolves who sold him to god knows who for god knows what purpose. He'd been so little when those men had taken him away; did he even remember his parents?

A sudden rap on the door knocked him out of his routine. He heaved himself up from the chair. It was probably just an agent again, coming to ask how he was doing, as if his child being stolen would suddenly not hurt. 

The agent at least tried to console him, little good it did. He wasn't a man of false promises; he never said they would find Stiles, never even implied he'd get to see him again. It drove a spike into his heart each and every day, but John never believed in suicide, and he needed to make sure one parent was around for Stiles; he had to be there for his kid. He wondered if the kid even remembered his old man. Maybe there was someone else who he called 'mom and dad' someone who _paid_ for him. 

_He's probably a pet now, whoever has him is taking good care of him._ A pet . . .because that was the life he wanted his son to lead.

He opened the door and he must have finally been going crazy, because the boy who stood there looked just how he imagined Stiles would. He had the same eyes, the same hair, he even had the same mole under his eye. He looked to be about the same age as Stiles too. He shifted on his feet and just starred. They both just starred for several moments. Johns heart pounded painfully in his chest. Something clicked inside of him. He threw his arms around the boy and pulled him close to his chest. "Be real," he whispered into the boys ear, "please be real. Be my Stiles." His eyes watered. 

"I missed you, dad." John broke down. He held onto the kid – _his_ kid – so tight he never thought he'd let him go. He never wanted to let him go. 

“Dad?” Stiles asked after their hug had gone uninterrupted for more than a minute. “Where's mom?”

John stiffened. “I'm so sorry, kiddo.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Waiting in the car outside was one of the hardest things Peter had ever had to do, not least because he knew there was a small chance Stiles wouldn't come back. He could chose to live with his father, and Peter wouldn't blame him for it. He could feel the rushing, conflicting, amalgamation of emotions inside the house. It ranged from happy, to sad, to angry. Both humans were feeling and they were feeling very strongly. Finally the emotions died down to sort of an acceptance, and after several hours Stiles returned to the car. Peter unlocked the door and he climbed inside. He could see a few wet streaks on the boys cheeks. 

“Did you know she was gone? My mom?” Peter thumbed the water from his humans face. 

“I'm sorry. I thought he should be the one to tell you.”

Stiles took a shuddering breath. “I'm glad you did. I don't have many memories of my parents growing up, so I'm glad I could at least have that with him. Even if it's a bad memory, it's still a memory, and I want to make so many more. Thank you, Peter, for everything,” Stiles smiled at him, a lip trembling smile. 

“Stiles?” Peter asked uncertainly. “Are you staying here, with your father?” 

Stiles laughed sharply, the sound was almost painful. 

“Are you kidding me? I'm never, ever, _ever_ leaving your side. Ever. But we're having dinner with my dad tonight, and every other day this week, He wants to meet you. I think he also wants to threaten you, but he wants to meet you, too. He said he's making chili. We have to come back earlier tomorrow so he can teach me how to make it too.” 

Stiles started to ramble as he pulled out his phone. He screensaver had been changed to a photo him and his father. Both of them had red-rimmed eyes, but they were smiling. He showed it to Peter with a grin. 

“I want one with all three of us before we leave, okay?” 

“Sure,” Peter agreed. His heart thudded a little with the thought of meeting Stiles parent, he didn't know how it was going to go, but regardless he would do whatever he needed to make his hyperactive human happy. “Chili sounds good.” From the window a man with graying hair waved at them. He looked so happy. Stiles waved back. Even drowned in tears it was the brightest Peter had ever seen him smile.

“Ennis will be here in fifteen minutes.” 

_”What?_ The guy who brought us a slaughtered buck for Christmas? Stiles, tell me you aren't serious.” Peter grabbed Stiles shoulders in a tight grip and gave him a small shake. 

Stiles laughed again. “No,” he said. “I’m just messing with you.” His eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. “He'll be here next week. Let's go eat some chili.” 

Peter sighed and kissed Stiles on the forehead. "Whatever makes you happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is finally finished, this work that took up nine months of my life. It's not perfect but I love it all the same <3 thanks everyone for all the kudos, comments, and support! It makes my day just that much brighter n.n


End file.
